The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works Of John Dryden, Vol. 7 (of 18) by John Dryden This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The Works Of John Dryden, Vol. 7 (of 18) The Duke of Guise; Albion and Albanius; Don Sebastian Author: John Dryden Editor: Walter Scott, Esq. Release Date: July 31, 2005 [EBook #16402] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN *** Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Fred Robinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN, NOW FIRST COLLECTED _IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES._ ILLUSTRATED WITH NOTES, HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND EXPLANATORY, AND A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ. VOL. VII. LONDON: PRINTED FOR WILLIAM MILLER, ALBEMARLE STREET, BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH 1808. * * * * * CONTENTS OF VOLUME SEVENTH. The Duke of Guise, a Tragedy Epistle Dedicatory to the Earl of Rochester The Vindication of the Duke of Guise Albion and Albanius, an Opera Preface Don Sebastian, a Tragedy Epistle Dedicatory to the Earl of Leicester Preface * * * * * THE DUKE OF GUISE. A TRAGEDY. Outos de philotimoi physeis en tais politeiais to agan me phylaxamenai, toi agathou meizon to kakon echousi. PLUTARCH. IN AGESILAO. THE DUKE OF GUISE. In the latter part of Charles the Second's reign, the stage, as well as every other engine which could affect the popular mind, was eagerly employed in the service of the contending factions. Settle and Shadwell had, in tragedy and comedy, contributed their mite to the support of the popular cause. In the stormy session of parliament, in 1680, the famous bill was moved, for the exclusion of the Duke of York, as a papist, from the succession, and accompanied by others of a nature equally peremptory and determined. The most remarkable was a bill to order an association for the safety of his majesty's person, for defence of the protestant religion, for the preservation of the protestant liege subjects against invasion and opposition, and for preventing any papist from succeeding to the throne of England. To recommend these rigid measures, and to keep up that zealous hatred and terror of the catholic religion, which the plot had inspired, Settle wrote his forgotten tragedy of "Pope Joan," in which he revives the old fable of a female pope, and loads her with all the crimes of which a priest, or a woman, could possibly be guilty. Shadwell's comedy of the "Lancashire Witches" was levelled more immediately at the papists, but interspersed with most gross and scurrilous reflections upon the English divines of the high church party. Otway, Lee, and Dryden were the formidable antagonists, whom the court opposed to the whig poets. Thus arrayed and confronted, the stage absolutely foamed with politics; the prologues and epilogues, in particular formed channels, through which the tenets of the opposite parties were frequently assailed, and the persons of their leaders and their poets exposed to scandal and derision. In the middle of these political broils, Dryden was called upon, as he informs us, by Lee, to return the assistance which that poet had afforded in composing "OEdipus." The history of the Duke of Guise had formerly occupied his attention, as an acceptable subject to the court after the Restoration. A League, formed under pretence of religion, and in defence of the king's authority, against his person, presented facilities of application to the late civil wars, to which, we may be sure, our poet was by no means insensible. But however apt these allusions might have been in 1665, the events which had taken place in 1681-2 admitted of a closer parallel, and excited a deeper interest. The unbounded power which Shaftesbury had acquired in the city of London, and its state of factious fermentation, had been equalled by nothing but the sway exercised by the leaders of the League in the metropolis of France. The intrigues by which the Council of Sixteen placed and displaced, flattered or libelled, those popular officers of Paris, whom the French call _echevins_, admitted of a direct and immediate comparison with the contest between the court and the whigs, for the election of the sheriffs of London; contests which attained so great violence, that, at one time, there was little reason to hope they would have terminated without bloodshed. The tumultuous day of the barricades, when Henry the second, after having in vain called in the assistance of his guards, was obliged to abandon his capital to the Duke of Guise and his faction, and assemble the states of his kingdom at Blois, was not entirely without a parallel in the annals of 1681. The violence of the parliament at London had led to its dissolution; and, in order to insure the tractability of their successors, they were assembled, by the king, at Oxford, where a concurrence of circumstances rendered the royal authority more paramount than in any other city of the kingdom. To this parliament the members came in an array, which more resembled the parliament of the White Bands, in the reign of Edward the second, than any that had since taken place. Yet, though armed, and attended by their retainers and the more ardent of their favourers, the leaders of opposition expressed their apprehensions of danger from the royal party. The sixteen whig peers, in their memorable petition against this removal, complained, that the parliament would at Oxford be exposed to the bloody machinations of the papists and their adherents, "of whom too many had crept into his majesty's guards." The aid of ballads and libellous prints was called in, to represent this alteration of the usual place of meeting as a manoeuvre to throw the parliament, its members, and its votes, at the feet of an arbitrary monarch[1]. It is probable that this meeting, which rather resembled a Polish diet than a British parliament, would not have separated without some signal, and perhaps bloody catastrophe, if the political art of Halifax, who was at the head of the small moderate party, called Trimmers, joined to the reluctance of either faction to commence hostilities against an enemy as fully prepared as themselves, had not averted so eminent a crisis. In all particulars, excepting the actual assassination, the parliament of Oxford resembled the assembly of the States General at Blois. The general character of the Duke of Monmouth certainly had not many points of similarity to that of the Duke of Guise; but in one particular incident his conduct had been formed on that model, and it is an incident which makes a considerable figure in the tragedy. In September 1679, after the king's illness, Monmouth was disgraced, and obliged to leave the kingdom. He retired to Holland, where he resided until the intrigues of Shaftesbury assured him the support of a party so strongly popular, that he might return, in open defiance of the court. In the November following, he conceived his presence necessary to animate his partizans; and, without the king's permission for his return, he embarked at the Brill, and landed at London on the 27th, at midnight, where the tumultuous rejoicings of the popular party more than compensated for the obscurity of his departure[2]. This bold step was, in all its circumstances, very similar to the return of the Duke of Guise from his government to Paris, against the express command of Henry the second, together with his reception by the populace, whom he came prepared to head in insurrection. Above all, the bill of exclusion bore a striking resemblance to the proceedings of the League against the King of Navarre, presumptive heir of the throne, whom, on account of his attachment to the protestant faith, they threatened to deprive of the succession. The historical passages, corresponding in many particulars with such striking accuracy, offered an excellent groundwork for a political play, and the "Duke of Guise" was composed accordingly; Dryden making use of the scenes which he had formerly written on the subject, and Lee contributing the remainder, which he eked out by some scenes and speeches adopted from the "Massacre of Paris," then, lying by him in manuscript. The court, however, considered the representation of the piece as at least of dubious propriety. The parallel was capable of being so extended as to exhibit no very flattering picture of the king's politics; and, on the other hand, it is possible, that the fate of the Duke of Guise, as identified with Monmouth, might shock the feelings of Charles, and the justice of the audience. Accordingly, we learn from the "Vindication," that the representation of the piece was prohibited; that it lay in the hands of the lord chamberlain (Henry Lord Arlington) from before mid-summer, 1682, till two months after that term; and that orders were not finally given for its being acted until the month of December in the same year. The king's tenderness for the Duke of Monmouth had by this time so far given way, that he had ordered his arrest at Stafford; and, from the dark preparations on both sides, it was obvious, that no measures were any longer to be kept betwixt them. All the motives of delicacy and prudence, which had prevented the representation of this obnoxious party performance, were now therefore annihilated or overlooked. Our author's part of the "Duke of Guise" is important, though not of great extent, as his scenes contain some of the most striking political sketches. The debate of the Council of Sixteen, with which the play opens, was his composition; the whole of the fourth act, which makes him responsible for the alleged parallel betwixt Guise and Monmouth, and the ridicule cast upon the sheriffs and citizens of the popular party, with the first part of the fifth, which implicates him in vindicating the assassination of Guise. The character and sentiments of the king, in these scenes, are drawn very closely after Davila, as the reader will easily see, from the Italian original subjoined in the notes. That picturesque historian had indeed anticipated almost all that even a poet could do, in conveying a portraiture, equally minute and striking, of the stormy period which he had undertaken to describe; and, had his powers of description been inferior, it is probable, that Dryden, hampered as he was, by restraints of prudence and delicacy, would not have chosen to go far beyond the authority to which he referred the lord chamberlain. The language of the play, at least in these scenes, seldom rises above that of the higher tone of historical oratory; and the descriptions are almost literally taken from Davila, and thrown into beautiful verse. In the character of Marmoutiere, there seems to be an allusion to the duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, whose influence was always, and sometimes successfully, used to detach her husband from the desperate schemes of Shaftesbury and Armstrong. The introduction of the necromancer, Malicorn, seems to refer to some artifices, by which the party of Monmouth endeavoured to call to their assistance the sanction of supernatural powers[3]. The particular story of Malicorn is said to be taken from a narrative in Rosset's _Histoires Tragiques_, a work which the present editor has never seen. In the conference between Malicorn and Melanax, Dryden has made much use of his astrological knowledge; and its mystical terms give a solemnity to the spirit's predictions, which was probably deepened by the poet's secret belief in this visionary study. As he borrowed liberally from Davila in the other parts of the play, he has not here disdained to use the assistance of Pulci, from whose romantic poem he has translated one or two striking passages, as the reader will find upon consulting the notes. The last scene betwixt the necromancer and the fiend is horribly fine: the description of the approach of the Evil One, and the effect which his presence produces upon the attendants, the domestic animals, and the wizard himself, is an instance, amongst many, of the powerful interest which may be produced by a judicious appeal to the early prejudices of superstition. I may be pardoned, however, when I add, that such scenes are, in general, unfit for the stage, where the actual appearance of a demon is apt to excite emotions rather ludicrous than terrific. Accordingly, that of Dryden failed in the representation. The circumstance, upon which the destruction of the wizard turns, is rather puerile; but there are many similar fables in the annals of popular superstition[4]. Lee's part of this play is, in general, very well written, and contains less rant than he usually puts in the mouths of his characters. The factions have been long at rest which were so deeply agitated by the first representation of this performance; yet some pains has been taken to trace those points of resemblance, which gave so much offence to one party, and triumph to the other. Many must doubtless have escaped our notice; but enough remains to shew the singular felicity with which Dryden, in the present instance, as in that of "Absalom and Achitophel," could adapt the narrative of ancient or foreign transactions to the political events of his own time, and "moralize two meanings in one word." Altogether abstracted from this consideration, the "Duke of Guise," as a historical play, possesses merit amply sufficient to rescue it from the oblivion into which it has fallen. The play was first acted 4th December, 1682, and encountered a stormy and dubious, if not an unfavourable, reception. But as, the strength of the court party increased, the piece was enabled to maintain its ground with more general approbation. It was performed by the united companies, and printed in 1683. Footnotes: 1. I cannot resist transcribing that ballad, which cost poor College, the protestant joiner, so extremely dear. It is extracted from Mr Luttrell's collection, who has marked it thus. "A most scandalous libel against the government, for which, with other things, College was justly executed." The justice of the execution may, I think, be questioned, unless, like Cinna the poet, the luckless ballad-monger was hanged for his bad verses. There is prefixed a cut, representing the king with a double face, carrying the house of commons in a shew-box at his back. In another copartment, he sticks fast in the mud with his burden. In another, Topham, the serjeant of the house of commons, with the other officers of parliament, liberate the members, and cram the bishops into the shew-box. A RAREE SHOW. To the tune of--"I am a senseless thing." _Leviathan._ Come hither, Topham, come, with a hey, with a hey; Bring a pipe and a drum, with a ho; Where'er about I go, Attend my raree show, With a hey, trany, nony, nony, no. _Topham._ That monstrous foul beast, with a hey, with a hey, Has houses twain in's chest, with a ho; O Cowper, Hughes, and Snow, Stop thief with raree show, With a hey, &c. For if he should escape, with a hey, with a hey, With Halifaxe's trap, with a ho, He'll carry good Dom. Com. Unto the pope of Rome, With a hey, &c. _Leviathan._ Be quiet, ye dull tools, with a hey, with a hey, As other free-born fools, with a ho, Do not all gaping stand To see my slight of hand. With a hey, &c. 'Tis not to Rome that I, with a hey, with a hey, Lug about my trumpery, with a ho, But Oxford, York, Carlisle, And round about the isle, With a hey, &c. But if they would come out, with a hey, with a hey, Let them first make a vote, with a ho. To yield up all they have, And Tower lords to save, With a hey, &c. _Topham._ Now that is very hard, with a hey, with a hey, Thou art worse than cut-nose guard, with a ho. And Clifford, Danby, Hide, Halifax does all outride, With a hey, &c. Holy Ghost, in bag of cloak, with a hey, with a hey, Quaking King in royal oak, with a ho. And Rosamond in bower, All badges are of power. With a hey, &c. And popularity, with a hey, with a hey, Adds power to majesty, with a ho; But Dom. Com. in little ease, Will all the world displease, With a hey, &c. _Leviathan._ Let 'um hate me, so they fear, with a hey, with a hey, Curst fox has the best cheer, with a ho; Two states, in blind house pent, Make brave strong government. With a hey, &c. _Topham._ But child of heathen Hobbes, with a hey, with a hey, Remember old Dry Bobs, with a ho, For fleecing England's flocks. Long fed with bits and knocks, With a hey, &c. _Leviathan._ What's past is not to come, with a hey, with a hey, Now safe is David's bum, with a ho; Then hey for Oxford ho, Strong government, raree show, With a hey, &c. Raree show is resouled, with a hey, with a hey, This is worse than desouled, with a ho; May the mighty weight at's back Make's lecherous loins to crack, With a hey, &c. Methinks he seems to stagger, with a hey, with a hey, Who but now did so swagger, with a ho; God's fish he's stuck in the mire, And all the fat's in the fire, With a hey, &c. Help Cooper, Hughs, and Snow, with a hey, with a hey, To pull down raree show, with a ho: So, so, the gyant's down, Let's masters out of pound, With a hey, &c. And now you've freed the nation, with a hey, with a hey, Cram in the convocation, with a ho, With pensioners all and some. Into this chest of Rome, With a hey, &c. And thrust in six-and-twenty, with a hey, with a hey. With _not guilties_ good plenty, with a ho, And hoot them hence away To Cologn or Breda, With a hey, &c. Haloo, the hunt's begun, with a hey, with a hey, Like father like son, with a ho; Raree show in French lap Is gone to take a nap, And succession has the clap, With a hey, trany, nony, nony, no. 2. "The news of his landing being reported by the watch, it soon spread abroad through the whole city; insomuch, that before day-light they rang the bells at St Giles in the Fields, placing several flambeaus on the top of the steeple, and divers great bonefires were made, two of which were very large, one in the Palace-yard at Westminster, and the other in Thames-street, near the custom-house, which was kindled in the morning, and maintained burning all day till evening, and then the universal joy of the people was expressed in most of the streets throughout London and Westminster by bone-fires, fireworks, and ringing of bells, accompanied with loud acclamations of joy, to the great grief of the papists." _An Account of the heroick Life and magnanimous Actions of the most illustrious Protestant Prince, James, Duke of Monmouth._ London, 1683. p. 95. 3. "A relation was published in the name of one Elizabeth Freeman, afterwards called the mayor of Hatfield, setting forth, that, on the 24th of January, the apparition of a woman, all in white [the Duke of Monmouth's mother was here to be understood], with a white veil over her face, accosted her with these words; 'Sweetheart, the 15th of May is appointed for the blood-royal to be poisoned. Be not afraid, for I am sent to tell thee.' That on the 27th the same appearance stood before her again, and she having then acquired courage enough to lay it under the usual adjuration, in the name, &c. it assumed a more glorious shape, and said in a harsher tone of voice, 'Tell King Charles from me, and bid him not remove his parliament (i.e. from London to Oxford), and stand to his council;' adding, 'Do as I bid you.' That on the 26th, it appeared to her a third time, but said only, 'Do your message;' and that on the next night, when she saw it for the last time, it said nothing at all. Those, who depend upon the people for support, must try all manner of practices upon them, and such fooleries as these sometimes operate more forcibly than experiments of a more rational kind. Care was besides taken to have this relation attested by Sir Joseph Jordan, a justice of peace, and the rector of Hatfield, Dr Lee, who was one of the king's chaplains. Nay, the message was actually sent to his majesty, and the whole forgery very officially circulated over the kingdom." RALPH'S _History_ Vol. I. p. 562. 4. In truth, the devil and the conjuror did not always play upon the square, but often took the most unfair advantages of each other. There is more than one instance of bad faith in the history of that renowned enchanter, Peter Fabel. On one occasion, he prevailed upon the devil, when he came to carry him off, to repose himself in an enchanted chair, from which he refused to liberate him, until he had granted him an additional lease of seven years. When this term was also expired, he had the eloquence and art to prevail on the fiend to allow him a farther respite, till a wax taper, then nearly expiring, was burned out. This boon being granted, he instantly put out the light, and deposited the taper in the church at Edmonton. Hence, in Weiver's "Funeral Monuments," he is thus mentioned: "Here (at Edmonton) lieth interred, under a seemly tombe without inscription, the body of Peter Fabell, as the report goes, upon whom this fable was fathered, that he, by his wittie devices, beguiled the devill." p 514. See also the _Book of his Merry Prankes_. Another instance occurs, in the famous history of Friar Bacon, (London 1666) where that renowned conjurer is recorded to have saved a man, that had given himself to the devil on condition of his debts being paid. "The case was referred to the friar. 'Deceiver of mankind, said he (speaking to the devil), it was thy bargain never to meddle with him so long as he was indebted to any; now how canst thou demand of him any thing, when he is indebted for all he hath to thee? When he payeth thee thy money, then take him as thy due; till then thou hast nothing to do with him; and so I charge thee to be gone.' At this the devil vanished with great horrour; but Fryar Bacon comforted the gentleman, and sent him home with a quiet conscience, bidding him never to pay the devil's money back, as he tendred his own safety, which he promised for to observe." From these instances, Melanax might have quoted precedent for insisting on the literal execution of his stipulation with Malicorn, since, to give the devil his due, the strict legal interpretation appears always to have been applied to bargains of that nature. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LAWRENCE, EARL OF ROCHESTER, &c.[1] MY LORD, The authors of this poem present it humbly to your lordship's patronage, if you shall think it worthy of that honour. It has already been a confessor, and was almost made a martyr for the royal cause: but having stood two trials from its enemies,--one before it was acted, another in the representation,--and having been in both acquitted, it is now to stand the public censure in the reading: where since, of necessity, it must have the same enemies, we hope it may also find the same friends; and therein we are secure, not only of the greater number, but of the more honest and loyal party. We only expected bare justice in the permission to have it acted; and that we had, after a severe and long examination, from an upright and knowing judge, who, having heard both sides, and examined the merits of the cause, in a strict perusal of the play, gave sentence for us, that it was neither a libel, nor a parallel of particular persons[2]. In the representation itself, it was persecuted with so notorious malice by one side, that it procured us the partiality of the other; so that the favour more than recompensed the prejudice. And it is happier to have been saved (if so we were) by the indulgence of our good and faithful fellow-subjects, than by our own deserts; because, thereby the weakness of the faction is discovered, which, in us, at that time attacked the government, and stood combined, like the members of the rebellious League, against the lawful sovereign authority. To what topic will they have recourse, when they are manifestly beaten from their chief post, which has always been popularity, and majority of voices? They will tell us,--that the voices of a people are not to be gathered in a play-house; and yet, even there, the enemies, as well as friends, have free admission: but, while our argument was serviceable to their interests, they could boast, that the theatres were true protestant; and came insulting to the plays, when their own triumphs were represented[3]. But let them now assure themselves, that they can make the major part of no assembly, except it be of a meeting-house[4]. Their tide of popularity is spent; and the natural current of obedience is, in spite of them, at last prevalent. In which, my lord, after the merciful providence of God, the unshaken resolution, and prudent carriage of the king, and the inviolable duty, and manifest innocence of his royal highness,--the prudent management of the ministers is also most conspicuous. I am not particular in this commendation, because I am unwilling to raise envy to your lordship, who are too just, not to desire that praise should be communicated to others, which was the common endeavour and co-operation of all. It is enough, my lord, that your own part was neither obscure in it, nor unhazardous. And if ever this excellent government, so well established by the wisdom of our forefathers, and so much shaken by the folly of this age, shall recover its ancient splendour, posterity cannot be so ungrateful as to forget those, who, in the worst of times, have stood undaunted by their king and country, and, for the safeguard of both, have exposed themselves to the malice of false patriots, and the madness of an headstrong rabble. But since this glorious work is yet unfinished, and though we have reason to hope well of the success, yet the event depends on the unsearchable providence of Almighty God, it is no time to raise trophies, while the victory is in dispute; but every man, by your example, to contribute what is in his power to maintain so just a cause, on which depends the future settlement and prosperity of three nations. The pilot's prayer to Neptune was not amiss in the middle of the storm: "Thou mayest do with me, O Neptune, what thou pleasest, but I will be sure to hold fast the rudder." We are to trust firmly in the Deity, but so as not to forget, that he commonly works by second causes, and admits of our endeavours with his concurrence. For our own parts, we are sensible, as we ought, how little we can contribute with our weak assistance. The most we can boast of, is, that we are not so inconsiderable as to want enemies, whom we have raised to ourselves on no other account than that we are not of their number; and, since that is their quarrel, they shall have daily occasion to hate us more. It is not, my lord, that any man delights to see himself pasquined and affronted by their inveterate scribblers; but, on the other side, it ought to be our glory, that themselves believe not of us what they write. Reasonable men are well satisfied for whose sakes the venom of their party is shed on us; because they see, that at the same time our adversaries spare not those to whom they owe allegiance and veneration. Their despair has pushed them to break those bonds; and it is observable, that the lower they are driven, the more violently they write; as Lucifer and his companions were only proud when angels, but grew malicious when devils. Let them rail, since it is the only solace of their miseries, and the only revenge which, we hope, they now can take. The greatest and the best of men are above their reach; and, for our meanness, though they assault us like footpads in the dark, their blows have done us little harm: we yet live to justify ourselves in open day, to vindicate our loyalty to the government, and to assure your lordship, with all submission and sincerity, that we are YOUR LORDSHIP'S Most obedient, faithful servants, JOHN DRYDEN. NAT. LEE. Footnotes: 1. Lawrence Hyde, created Earl of Rochester in 1682, was the second son of the famous Lord Clarendon, and affords a rare instance of the son of a disgraced minister recovering that favour at court, which had been withdrawn from his father. He was now at the head of the Commissioners for the Treasury, and a patron of our poet; as appears from the terms of Dryden's letter, soliciting his interest in very affecting terms, and from the subsequent dedication of "Cleomenes," where he acknowledges his lordship's goodness during the reign of two masters; and that, even from a bare treasury, his success was contrary to that of Mr Cowley; Gideon's fleece having been moistened, when all the ground was dry around it. The Earl of Rochester was the more proper patron for the "Duke of Guise," as he was a violent opponent of the bill of exclusion. He was Lord High Treasurer in the reign of James II., and died in 1711. 2. Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, then Lord Chamberlain. 3. Dryden seems here to allude to the triumphant strain in which Shadwell mentions the reception of "The Lancashire Witches:" "I could not imagine," he says, "till I heard that great opposition was designed against the play a month before it was acted, by a party who, being ashamed to say it was for the sake of the Irish priest, pretended that I had written a satire on the Church of England; and several profest Papists railed at it violently before they had seen it, alleging that for a reason, such dear friends they are to our Church: and, notwithstanding all was put out that could any way be wrested to an offence against the Church, yet they came with the greatest malice in the world to hiss it; and many, that called themselves Protestants, joined with them in that noble enterprise. "But, for all this, they came resolved to hiss it, right or wrong, and had gotten mercenary fellows, who were such fools they did not know when to hiss; and this was evident to all the audience. It was wonderful to see men of great quality, and gentlemen, in so mean a combination; but, to my great satisfaction, they came off as meanly as I could wish. I had so numerous an assembly of the best sort of men, who stood so generously in my defence for the three first days, that they quashed all the vain attempts of my enemies; the inconsiderable party of hissers yielded, and the play lived in spite of them. "Had it been never so bad, I had valued the honour of having so many and such friends as eminently appeared for me, above that of excelling the most admirable Jonson, if it were possible to be done by me." This flourish of exultation contains many things which were doubtless offensive to Dryden's jealousy of dramatic fame, as well as to his political principles. Nor was he probably insensible to the affected praise bestowed on Jonson, whose merit, it was fashionable to say, he had attempted to depreciate. 4. The greater, and, perhaps, the most formidable, part of those who now opposed the court, were the remnants of the old fanatics, whose religious principles were shocked by the dissolute manners of Charles and his courtiers. These, of course, added little to the force of the party in the theatres, which they never frequented. Shadwell seems to acknowledge this disadvantage in the epilogue to "The Lancashire Witches:" Our Popes and friars on one side offend, And yet, alas! the city's not our friend: The city neither like us nor our wit, They say their wives learn ogling in the pit; They're from the boxes taught to make advances, To answer stolen sighs and naughty glances. We virtuous ladies some new ways must seek, For all conspire our playing trade to break. But although the citizens declined to frequent even the plays written on their own side of the question, Armstrong, and the personal followers of Monmouth, were of a gayer complexion, and doubtless, as they were not inferior to the courtiers in the licence assumed by the age, formed the principal part of the audience at the protestant plays. The discovery of the Rye-house Plot broke the strength of this part of the confederacy, and the odium attending that enterprise rendered their opposition to the court in public assemblies both fruitless and dangerous. PROLOGUE WRITTEN BY MR DRYDEN. SPOKEN BY MR SMITH. Our play's a parallel: the Holy League Begot our Covenant: Guisards got the whig: Whate'er our hot-brained sheriffs did advance, Was, like our fashions, first produced in France; And, when worn out, well scourged, and banished there, Sent over, like their godly beggars, here. Could the same trick, twice played, our nation gull? It looks as if the devil were grown dull; Or served us up, in scorn, his broken meat, And thought we were not worth a better cheat. The fulsome Covenant, one would think in reason, Had given us all our bellies full of treason; And yet, the name but changed, our nasty nation Chews its own excrements, the Association[1]. 'Tis true, we have not learned their poisoning way, For that's a mode but newly come in play; Resides, your drug's uncertain to prevail, But your true protestant can never fail With that compendious instrument, a flail[2]. Go on, and bite, even though the hook lies bare; Twice in one age expel the lawful heir; Once more decide religion by the sword, And purchase for us a new tyrant lord. Pray for your king, but yet your purses spare; Make him not two-pence richer by your prayer. To show you love him much, chastise him more, And make him very great, and very poor. Push him to wars, but still no peace advance; Let him lose England, to recover France. Cry freedom up, with popular noisy votes, And get enough to cut each other's throats. Lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne; For fear of too much power, pray leave him none. A noise was made of arbitrary sway; But, in revenge, you whigs have found a way An arbitrary duty now to pay. Let his own servants turn to save their stake, Glean from his plenty, and his wants forsake; But let some Judas near his person stay, To swallow the last sop, and then betray. Make London independent of the crown; A realm apart; the kingdom of the town. Let ignoramus juries find no traitors[3], And ignoramus poets scribble satires. And, that your meaning none may fail to scan, Do what in coffee-houses you began,-- Pull down the master, and set up the man. Footnotes: 1. The association proposed in parliament was, by the royalists, said to be, a revival of the Solemn League and Covenant. But the draught of an association, found in Lord Shaftesbury's cabinet, and produced on his trial, in which that memorable engagement seems to be pretty closely copied, was probably what our poet alludes to. 2. The protestant flail was a kind of bludgeon, so jointed as to fold together, and lie concealed in the pocket. They are supposed to have been invented to arm the insurgents about this period. In the trial of Braddon and Spoke for a misdemeanor, the recorder offered to prove, that Braddon had bragged, that "he was the only inventor of the protestant flails; an instrument you have heard of, gentlemen, and for what use designed." This circumstance was not omitted by Jefferies, in his characteristic address to the prisoner. "But oh what a happiness it was for this sort of people, that they had got Mr Braddon, an honest man and a man of courage, says Mr Speke, a man _a propos_! and pray, says he to his friend, give him the best advice you can, for he is a man very fit for the purpose; and pray secure him under a sham name, for I'll undertake there are such designs upon pious Mr Braddon, such connivances to do him mischief, that, if he had not had his _protestant flail_ about him, somebody or other would have knocked him on the head; and he is such a wonderful man, that all the king's courts must needs conspire to do Mr Braddon a mischief. A very pretty sort of man, upon my word, and he must be used accordingly." _State Trials_, Vol. III. p. 897. In one of the scarce medals struck by James II. Justice is represented weighing mural crowns, which preponderate against a naked sword, a serpent, and a protestant flail: on each side of the figure are a head and trunk, representing those of Argyle and Monmouth. An accurate description of this weapon occurs in the following passage from Roger North: "There was much recommendation of silk armour, and the prudence of being provided with it against the time protestants were to be massacred. And accordingly there were abundance of these silken backs, breasts, and pots (i.e. head-pieces), made and sold, that were pretended to be pistol proof; in which any man dressed up was as safe as in a house, for it was impossible any one could go to strike him for laughing. So ridiculous was the figure, as they say, of hogs in armour; an image of derision, insensible but to the view, as I have had it. This was armour of defence; but our sparks were not altogether so tame as to carry their provisions no farther, for truly they intended to be assailants upon fair occasion, and had for that end recommended also to them a certain pocket weapon, which, for its design and efficacy, had the honour to be called a _protestant flail_. It was for street and crowd-work; and the engine lying perdue in a coat pocket, might readily sally out to execution, and by clearing a great hall, a piazza, or so, carry an election by a choice way of polling, called _knocking down_. The handle resembled a farrier's blood-stick, and the fall was joined to the end by a strong nervous ligature, that in its swing fell just short of the hand, and was made of _lignum vitae_, or rather, as the poet termed it, _mortis_." _Examen._ p. 572. The following is the first stanza of "The Protestant Flail; an excellent new song, to the tune of, Lacy's Maggot, or the Hobby Horse." It is thus labelled by Luttrell: "A bonny thing, 14 June, 1632." Listen a while, and I'll tell you a tale Of a new device of a protestant flail; With a thump, thump, thump a thump. Thump a thump, thump. This flail it was made of the finest wood, All lined with lead, and notable good For splitting of bones, and shedding the blood Of all that withstood, With a thump, &c. 3. Shaftesbury, College, and others, were liberated by grand juries, who refused to find bills against them, bringing in what are technically called verdicts of _ignoramus_. It was here that the whig sheriffs were of most consequence to their party; for by their means the juries were picked from the very centre of the faction; and although they included many men of eminence, both for rank and talents, yet they were generally such as had made up their minds to cast the bill long before they came into court. This gave great offence to the royalists. North says, "There lay the barrier of the faction; and that stately word (_ignoramus_) became the appellative of the whole corrupt practice, and the infamous title of all the persons concerned in it." In Luttrell's Collection I find, "Ignoramus, an excellent new song, to the tune of Lay by your Pleading, Law lies a Bleeding." 15 Dec. 1681. At the Old Bailey, Where rogues flock daily, A greater rogue far than Coleman, White, or Stayley, Was late indicted. Witnesses cited, But then he was set free, so the king was righted. 'Gainst princes offences Proved in all senses, But 'gainst a whig there is no truth in evidences; They sham us, and flam us, And ram us, and damn us. And then, in spite of law, come off with ignoramus, &c. This song, according to the invariable practice of the scribblers on both sides, was answered by a new Ignoramus. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _The King of France._ _Duke of_ GUISE. _Duke of_ MAYENNE. GRILLON, _Colonel of the Guard._ ALPHONSO CORSO, _a Colonel._ BELLEURE, _a Courtier._ ABBOT DEL BENE, } _Royalists._ M. MONFERT, } _The Cardinal of_ GUISE. } _Archbishop of_ LYONS. } POLIN, } AUMALE, } _Of Guise's_ BUSSY, } _Faction._ _The Curate of St_ EUSTACE, } MALICORN, _a Necromancer,_ } MELANAX, _a Spirit,_ } _Two Sheriffs,_ _Citizens and Rabble, &c._ _Queen Mother._ MARMOUTIERE, _Niece to_ GRILLON. SCENE,--_Paris._ THE DUKE OF GUISE. ACT I. SCENE I.--_The Council of Sixteen seated; an empty Chair prepared for the Duke of Guise._ BUSSY _and_ POLIN, _two of the Sixteen._ _Buss._ Lights there! more lights! What, burn the tapers dim, When glorious Guise, the Moses, Gideon, David, The saviour of the nation, makes approach? _Pol._ And therefore are we met; the whole sixteen, That sway the crowd of Paris, guide their votes, Manage their purses, persons, fortunes, lives, To mount the Guise, where merit calls him, high, And give him a whole heaven for room to shine. _Enter Curate of St_ EUSTACE. _Buss._ The curate of St Eustace comes at last: But, father, why so late? _Cur._ I have been taking godly pains to satisfy some scruples raised amongst weak brothers of our party, that were staggering in the cause. _Pol._ What could they find to object? _Cur._ They thought, to arm against the king was treason. _Buss._ I hope you set them right? _Cur._ Yes; and for answer, I produced this book. A Calvinist minister of Orleans Writ this, to justify the admiral For taking arms against the king deceased; Wherein he proves, that irreligious kings May justly be deposed, and put to death. _Buss._ To borrow arguments from heretic books, Methinks, was not so prudent. _Cur._ Yes; from the devil, if it would help our cause. The author was indeed a heretic; The matter of the book is good and pious. _Pol._ But one prime article of our Holy League Is to preserve the king, his power, and person. _Cur._ That must be said, you know, for decency; A pretty blind to make the shoot secure. _Buss._ But did the primitive Christians e'er rebel, When under heathen lords? I hope they did. _Cur._ No sure, they did not; for they had not power; The conscience of a people is their power. _Pol._ Well; the next article in our solemn covenant Has cleared the point again. _Buss._ What is't? I should be glad to find the king No safer than needs must. _Pol._ That, in case of opposition from any person whatsoever-- _Cur._ That's well, that well; then the king is not excepted, if he oppose us.-- _Pol._ We are obliged to join as one, to punish All, who attempt to hinder or disturb us. _Buss._ 'Tis a plain case; the king's included in the punishment, in case he rebel against the people. _Pol._ But how can he rebel? _Cur._ I'll make it out: Rebellion is an insurrection against the government; but they that have the power are actually the government; therefore, if the people have the power, the rebellion is in the king. _Buss._ A most convincing argument for faction. _Cur._ For arming, if you please, but not for faction: For still the faction is the fewest number: So what they call the lawful government, Is now the faction; for the most are ours. _Pol._ Since we are proved to be above the king, I would gladly understand whom we are to obey, or, whether we are to be all kings together? _Cur._ Are you a member of the League, and ask that question? There's an article, that, I may say, is as necessary as any in the creed; namely, that we, the said associates, are sworn to yield ready obedience, and faithful service, to that head which shall be deputed. _Buss._ 'Tis most manifest, that, by virtue of our oath, we are all subjects to the Duke of Guise. The king's an officer that has betrayed his trust; and therefore we have turned him out of service. _Omn._ Agreed, agreed. _Enter the Duke of_ GUISE, _Cardinal of_ GUISE, AUMALE: _Torches before them. The Duke takes the Chair._ _Buss._ Your highness enters in a lucky hour; The unanimous vote you heard, confirms your choice. As head of Paris and the Holy League. _Card._ I say amen to that. _Pol._ You are our champion, buckler of our faith. _Card._ The king, like Saul, is heaven's repented choice; You his anointed one, on better thought. _Gui._ I'm what you please to call me; any thing, Lieutenant-general, chief, or constable, Good decent names, that only mean--your slave. _Buss._ You chased the Germans hence, exiled Navarre, And rescued France from heretics and strangers. _Aum._ What he, and all of us have done, is known. What's our reward? Our offices are lost, Turned out, like laboured oxen after harvest, To the bare commons of the withered field. _Buss._ Our charters will go next; because we sheriffs Permit no justice to be done on those The court calls rebels, but we call them saints. _Gui._ Yes; we are all involved, as heads, or parties; Dipt in the noisy crime of state, called treason; And traitors we must be, to king, or country. _Buss._ Why then my choice is made. _Pol._ And mine. _Omn._ And all. _Card._ Heaven is itself head of the Holy League; And all the saints are cov'nanters and Guisards. _Gui._ What say you, curate? _Cur._ I hope well, my lord. _Card._ That is, he hopes you mean to make him abbot, And he deserves your care of his preferment; For all his prayers are curses on the government, And all his sermons libels on the king; In short, a pious, hearty, factious priest. _Gui._ All that are here, my friends, shall share my fortunes: There's spoil, preferments, wealth enough in France; 'Tis but deserve, and have. The Spanish king Consigns me fifty thousand crowns a-week To raise, and to foment a civil war. 'Tis true, a pension, from a foreign prince, Sounds treason in the letter of the law, But good intentions justify the deed. _Cur._ Heaven's good; the cause is good; the money's good; No matter whence it comes. _Buss._ Our city-bands are twenty thousand strong, Well-disciplined, well-armed, well-seasoned traitors, Thick-rinded heads, that leave no room for kernel; Shop-consciences, of proof against an oath, Preached up, and ready tined for a rebellion[1]. _Gui._ Why then the noble plot is fit for birth; And labouring France cries out for midwife hands. We missed surprising of the king at Blois, When last the states were held: 'twas oversight; Beware we make not such another blot. _Card._ This holy time of Lent we have him sure; He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars. In that procession, he's more fit for heaven: What hinders us to seize the royal penitent, And close him in a cloister? _Cur._ Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure. _Gui._ No; guard him safe; Thin diet will do well; 'twill starve him into reason, 'Till he exclude his brother of Navarre, And graft succession on a worthier choice. To favour this, five hundred men in arms Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call, And speed the work; St Martin's gate was named; But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward, Refused me passage there. _Buss._ I know that Conty; A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue; He'll peach, and ruin all. _Card._ Give out he's arbitrary, a Navarist, A heretic; discredit him betimes, And make his witness void. _Cur._ I'll swear him guilty. I swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon, Mock-fire that never burns. _Gui._ Then, Bussy, be it your care to admit my troops, At Port St Honore: [_Rises._] Night wears apace, And day-light must not peep on dark designs. I will myself to court, pay formal duty, Take leave, and to my government retire; Impatient to be soon recalled, to see The king imprisoned, and the nation free[2]. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ MALICORN _solus._ _Mal._ Each dismal minute, when I call to mind The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell, In one-and-twenty years to be his slave, Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back, The wards of reason roll into their spring. O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years, And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire, Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead, Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds, And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!-- But hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still, [_Knocking at the Door._ My spirits start on end for Guise's fate. _A Devil rises._ _Mal._ What counsel does the fate of Guise require? _Dev._ Remember, with his prince there's no delay. But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away; Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve, The tomb is still, whatever fools believe: Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring, Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king, That rules the hive, be born without a sting; Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power. And he is great as Mecca's emperor. He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows, But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows; Tell him, fate's awed when an usurper springs, And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [_Vanishes._ SCENE III. _Enter the Duke of_ GUISE, _and Duke of_ MAYENNE. _May._ All offices and dignities he gives To your profest and most inveterate foes; But if he were inclined, as we could wish him, There is a lady-regent at his ear, That never pardons. _Gui._ Poison on her name! Take my hand on't, that cormorant dowager Will never rest, till she has all our heads In her lap. I was at Bayonne with her, When she, the king, and grisly d'Alva met. Methinks, I see her listening now before me, Marking the very motion of his beard, His opening nostrils, and his dropping lids. I hear him croak too to the gaping council,-- Fish for the great fish, take no care for frogs, Cut off the poppy-heads, sir;--madam, charm The winds but fast, the billows will be still[3]. _May._ But, sir, how comes it you should be thus warm, Still pushing counsels when among your friends; Yet, at the court, cautious, and cold as age, Your voice, your eyes, your mien so different, You seem to me two men? _Gui._ The reason's plain. Hot with my friends, because, the question given, I start the judgment right, where others drag. This is the effect of equal elements, And atoms justly poised; nor should you wonder More at the strength of body than of mind; 'Tis equally the same to see me plunge Headlong into the Seine, all over armed, And plow against the torrent to my point, As 'twas to hear my judgment on the Germans, This to another man would be a brag; Or at the court among my enemies, To be, as I am here, quite off my guard, Would make me such another thing as Grillon, A blunt, hot, honest, downright, valiant fool. _May._ Yet this you must allow a failure in you,-- You love his niece; and to a politician All passion's bane, but love directly death. _Gui._ False, false, my Mayenne; thou'rt but half Guise again. Were she not such a wond'rous composition, A soul, so flushed as mine is with ambition, Sagacious and so nice, must have disdained her: But she was made when nature was in humour, As if a Grillon got her on the queen, Where all the honest atoms fought their way, Took a full tincture of the mother's wit, But left the dregs of wickedness behind. _May._ Have you not told her what we have in hand? _Gui._ My utmost aim has been to hide it from her, But there I'm short; by the long chain of causes She has scanned it, just as if she were my soul; And though I flew about with circumstances. Denials, oaths, improbabilities; Yet, through the histories of our lives, she looked, She saw, she overcame. _May._ Why then, we're all undone. _Gui._ Again you err. Chaste as she is, she would as soon give up Her honour, as betray me to the king: I tell thee, she's the character of heaven; Such an habitual over-womanly goodness, She dazzles, walks mere angel upon earth. But see, she comes; call the cardinal Guise, While Malicorn attends for some dispatches, Before I take my farewell of the court. [_Exit_ MAY. _Enter_ MARMOUTIERE. _Mar._ Ah Guise, you are undone! _Gui._ How, madam? _Mar._ Lost, Beyond the possibility of hope: Despair, and die. _Gui._ You menace deeply, madam: And should this come from any mouth but yours, My smile should answer how the ruin touched me. _Mar._ Why do you leave the court? _Gui._ The court leaves me. _Mar._ Were there no more, but weariness of state, Or could you, like great Scipio, retire, Call Rome ungrateful, and sit down with that; Such inward gallantry would gain you more Than all the sullied conquests you can boast: But oh, you want that Roman mastery; You have too much of the tumultuous times, And I must mourn the fate of your ambition. _Gui._ Because the king disdains my services, Must I not let him know I dare be gone? What, when I feel his council on my neck, Shall I not cast them backward if I can, And at his feet make known their villainy? _Mar._ No, Guise, not at his feet, but on his head; For there you strike. _Gui._ Madam, you wrong me now: For still, whate'er shall come in fortune's whirl, His person must be safe. _Mar._ I cannot think it. However, your last words confess too much. Confess! what need I urge that evidence, When every hour I see you court the crowd, When with the shouts of the rebellious rabble, I see you borne on shoulders to cabals; Where, with the traitorous Council of Sixteen, You sit, and plot the royal Henry's death; Cloud the majestic name with fumes of wine, Infamous scrolls, and treasonable verse; While, on the other side, the name of Guise, By the whole kennel of the slaves, is rung. Pamphleteers, ballad-mongers sing your ruin. While all the vermin of the vile Parisians Toss up their greasy caps where'er you pass, And hurl your dirty glories in your face. _Gui._ Can I help this? _Mar._ By heaven, I'd earth myself, Rather than live to act such black ambition: But, sir, you seek it with your smiles and bows. This side and that side congeing to the crowd. You have your writers too, that cant your battles, That stile you, the new David, second Moses, Prop of the church, deliverer of the people. Thus from the city, as from the heart, they spread Through all the provinces, alarm the countries, Where they run forth in heaps, bellowing your wonders; Then cry,--The king, the king's a Hugonot, And, spite of us, will have Navarre succeed, Spite of the laws, and spite of our religion: But we will pull them down, down with them, down[4]. [_Kneels._ _Gui._ Ha, madam! Why this posture? _Mar._ Hear me, sir; For, if 'tis possible, my lord, I'll move you. Look back, return, implore the royal mercy, Ere 'tis too late; I beg you by these tears, These sighs, and by the ambitious love you bear me; By all the wounds of your poor groaning country, That bleeds to death. O seek the best of kings, Kneel, fling your stubborn body at his feet: Your pardon shall be signed, your country saved, Virgins and matrons all shall sing your fame, And every babe shall bless the Guise's name. _Gui._ O rise, thou image of the deity! You shall prevail, I will do any thing: You've broke the very gall of my ambition, And all my powers now float in peace again. Be satisfied that I will see the king, Kneel to him, ere I journey to Champaigne, And beg a kind farewell. _Mar._ No, no, my lord; I see through that; you but withdraw a while, To muster all the forces that you can, And then rejoin the Council of Sixteen. You must not go. _Gui._ All the heads of the League Expect me, and I have engaged my honour. _Mar._ Would all those heads were off, so yours were saved! Once more, O Guise, the weeping Marmoutiere Entreats you, do not go. _Gui._ Is't possible That Guise should say, in this he must refuse you! _Mar._ Go then, my lord. I late received a letter From one at court, who tells me, the king loves me: Read it,--there is no more than what you hear. I've jewels offered too,--perhaps may take them; And if you go from Paris, I'll to court. _Gui._ But, madam, I have often heard you say, You loved not courts. _Mar._ Perhaps I've changed my mind: Nothing as yet could draw me, but a king; And such a king,--so good, so just, so great, That, at his birth, the heavenly council paused, And then, at last, cried out,--This is a man. _Gui._ Come, 'tis but counterfeit; you dare not go. _Mar._ Go to your government, and try. _Gui._ I will. _Mar._ Then I'll to court, nay--to the king. _Gui._ By heaven, I swear you cannot, shall not,--dare not see him. _Mar._ By heaven, I can, I dare, nay--and I will; And nothing but your stay shall hinder me; For now, methinks, I long for't. _Gui._ Possible! _Mar._ I'll give you yet a little time to think; But, if I hear you go to take your leave, I'll meet you there; before the throne I'll stand,-- Nay you shall see me kneel and kiss his hand. [_Exit._ _Gui._ Furies and hell! She does but try me,--Ha! This is the mother-queen, and Espernon, Abbot Delbene, Alphonso Corso too, All packed to plot, and turn me into madness. [_Reading the Letter._ _Enter Cardinal_ GUISE, _Duke Of_ MAYENNE, MALICORN, _&c._ Ha! can it be! "Madam, the king loves you."-- [_Reads._ But vengeance I will have; to pieces, thus, To pieces with them all. [_Tears the Letter._ _Card._ Speak lower. _Gui._ No; By all the torments of this galling passion, I'll hollow the revenge I vow, so loud, My father's ghost shall hear me up to heaven. _Card._ Contain yourself; this outrage will undo us. _Gui._ All things are ripe, and love new points their ruin. Ha! my good lords, what if the murdering council Were in our power, should they escape our justice? I see, by each man's laying of his hand Upon his sword, you swear the like revenge. For me, I wish that mine may both rot off-- _Card._ No more. _May._ The Council of Sixteen attend you. _Gui._ I go--that vermin may devour my limbs; That I may die, like the late puling Francis[5], Under the barber's hands, imposthumes choak me,-- If while alive, I cease to chew their ruin; Alphonso Corso, Grillon, priest, together: To hang them in effigy,--nay, to tread, Drag, stamp, and grind them, after they are dead. [_Exeunt._ ACT II. SCENE I. _Enter Queen-Mother, Abbot_ DELBENE, _and_ POLIN. _Qu. M._ Pray, mark the form of the conspiracy: Guise gives it out, he journeys to Champaigne, But lurks indeed at Lagny, hard by Paris, Where every hour he hears and gives instructions. Mean time the Council of Sixteen assure him, They have twenty thousand citizens in arms. Is it not so, Polin? _Pol._ True, on my life; And, if the king doubts the discovery, Send me to the Bastile till all be proved. _Qu. M._ Call colonel Grillon; the king would speak with him. _Ab._ Was ever age like this? [_Exit_ POLIN. _Qu. M._ Polin is honest; Beside, the whole proceeding is so like The hair-brained rout, I guessed as much before. Know then, it is resolved to seize the king, When next he goes in penitential weeds Among the friars, without his usual guards; Then, under shew of popular sedition, For safety, shut him in a monastery, And sacrifice his favourites to their rage. _Ab._ When is this council to be held again? _Qu. M._ Immediately upon the duke's departure. _Ab._ Why sends not then the king sufficient guards, To seize the fiends, and hew them into pieces? _Qu. M._ 'Tis in appearance easy, but the effect Most hazardous; for straight, upon the alarm, The city would be sure to be in arms; Therefore, to undertake, and not to compass, Were to come off with ruin and dishonour. You know the Italian proverb--_Bisogna copriersi_[6],-- He, that will venture on a hornet's nest, Should arm his head, and buckler well his breast. _Ab._ But wherefore seems the king so unresolved? _Qu. M._ I brought Polin, and made the demonstration; Told him--necessity cried out, to take A resolution to preserve his life, And look on Guise as a reclaimless rebel: But, through the natural sweetness of his temper, And dangerous mercy, coldly he replied,-- Madam I will consider what you say. _Ab._ Yet after all, could we but fix him-- _Qu. M._ Right,-- The business were more firm for this delay; For noblest natures, though they suffer long, When once provoked, they turn the face to danger. But see, he comes, Alphonso Corso with him; Let us withdraw, and when 'tis fit rejoin him. [_Exeunt._ _Enter King, and_ ALPHONSO CORSO. _King._ Alphonso Corso. _Alph._ Sir. _King._ I think thou lovest me. _Alph._ More than my life. _King._ That's much; yet I believe thee. My mother has the judgment of the world, And all things move by that; but, my Alphonso, She has a cruel wit. _Alph._ The provocation, sir. _King._ I know it well; But,--if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,-- All conjurations blot the name of kings. What honours, interest, were the world to buy him, Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder? Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus, I mean the latter, so cried up in story. Caesar did ill, but did it in the sun, And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus, Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows, His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father. This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man Makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine. _Alph._ Tully was wise, but wanted constancy. _Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot_ DELBENE. _Qu. M._ Good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered To wait on your decrees. _King._ Oh, madam! _Qu. M._ Sir? _King._ Oh mother,--but I cannot make it way;-- Chaos and shades,--'tis huddled up in night. _Qu. M._ Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind; It spreads the beauteous images abroad, Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul. _King._ You would embark me in a sea of blood. _Qu. M._ You see the plot directly on your person; But give it o'er, I did but state the case. Take Guise into your heart, and drive your friends; Let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway, And, when they read your acts with their vile breath, Proclaim aloud, they like not this or that; Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre, And cry,--they'll have it mended, that they will, Or you shall be no king. _King._ 'Tis true, the people Ne'er know a mean, when once they get the power; But O, if the design we lay should fail, Better the traitors never should be touched, If execution cries not out--'Tis done. _Qu. M._ No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design: But I have lived too long, since my own blood Dares not confide in her that gave him being. _King._ Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears, Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams: Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death; Whored Margarita,--plots upon my life,-- And shall I not revenge?[7] _Qu. M._ Why, this is Harry; Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom He saw the admiral Coligny's back.[8] _King._ O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry! Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges, Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,-- This were a Florence master-piece indeed. _Qu. M._ He comes to take his leave. _King._ Then for Champaigne; But lies in wait till Paris is in arms. Call Grillon in. All that I beg you now, Is to be hushed upon the consultation, As urns, that never blab. _Qu. M._ Doubt not your friends; Love them, and then you need not fear your foes. _Enter_ GRILLON. _King._ Welcome, my honest man, my old tried friend. Why dost thou fly me, Grillon, and retire? _Gril._ Rather let me demand your majesty, Why fly you from yourself? I've heard you say, You'd arm against the League; why do you not? The thoughts of such as you, are starts divine; And when you mould with second cast the spirit, The air, the life, the golden vapour's gone. _King._ Soft, my old friend; Guise plots upon my life; Polin shall tell thee more. Hast thou not heard The insufferable affronts he daily offers,-- War without treasure on the Huguenots; While I am forced against my bent of soul, Against all laws, all custom, right, succession, To cast Navarre from the Imperial line? _Gril._ Why do you, sir? Death, let me tell the traitor-- _King._ Peace, Guise is going to his government; You are his foe of old; go to him, Grillon; Visit him as from me, to be employed In this great war against the Huguenots; And, pr'ythee, tell him roundly of his faults, No farther, honest Grillon. _Gril._ Shall I fight him? _King._ I charge thee, not. _Gril._ If he provokes me, strike him; You'll grant me that? _King._ Not so, my honest soldier; Yet speak to him. _Gril._ I will, by heaven, to the purpose; And, if he force a beating, who can help it? [_Exit._ _King._ Follow, Alphonso; when the storm is up, Call me to part them. _Qu. M._ Grillon, to ask him pardon, Will let Guise know we are not in the dark. _King._ You hit the judgment; yet, O yet, there's more; Something upon my heart, after these counsels, So soft, and so unworthy to be named!-- _Qu. M._ They say, that Grillon's niece is come to court, And means to kiss your hand. [_Exit._ _King._ Could I but hope it! O my dear father, pardon me in this, And then enjoin me all that man can suffer; But sure the powers above will take our tears For such a fault--love is so like themselves. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--_The Louvre._ _Enter_ GUISE, _attended with his Family;_ MARMOUTIERE _meeting him new drest, attended, &c._ _Gui._ Furies! she keeps her word, and I am lost; Yet let not my ambition shew it to her; For, after all, she does it but to try me, And foil my vowed design.--Madam, I see You're come to court; the robes you wear become you; Your air, your mien, your charms, your every grace, Will kill at least your thousand in a day. _Mar._ What, a whole day, and kill but one poor thousand! An hour you mean, and in that hour ten thousand. Yes, I would make with every glance a murder.-- Mend me this curl. _Gui._ Woman! [_Aside._ _Mar._ You see, my lord, I have my followers, like you. I swear, The court's a heavenly place; but--O, my heart! I know not why that sigh should come uncalled; Perhaps, 'twas for your going; yet I swear, I never was so moved, O Guise, as now, Just as you entered, when from yonder window I saw the king. _Gui._ Woman, all over woman! [_Aside._ The world confesses, madam, Henry's form Is noble and majestic. _Mar._ O you grudge The extorted praise, and speak him but by halves. _Gui._ Priest, Corso, devils! how she carries it! _Mar._ I see, my lord, you're come to take your leave; And were it not to give the court suspicion, I would oblige you, sir, before you go, To lead me to the king. _Gui._ Death and the devil! _Mar._ But since that cannot be, I'll take my leave Of you, my lord; heaven grant your journey safe! Farewell, once more. [_Offers her hand._] Not stir! does this become you,-- Does your ambition swell into your eyes?-- Jealousy by this light; nay then, proud Guise, I tell you, you're not worthy of the grace; But I will carry't, sir, to those that are, And leave you to the curse of bosom-war. [_Exit._ _May._ Is this the heavenly-- _Gui._ Devil, devil, as they are all. 'Tis true, at first she caught the heavenly form, But now ambition sets her on her head, By hell, I see the cloven mark upon her. Ha! Grillon here! some new court-trick upon me. _Enter_ GRILLON. _Gril._ Sir, I have business for your ear. _Gui._ Retire. [_Exeunt his Followers._ _Gril._ The king, my lord, commanded me to wait you, And bid you welcome to the court. _Gui._ The king Still loads me with new honours; but none greater Than this, the last. _Gril._ There is one greater yet, Your high commission 'gainst the Huguenots; I and my family shall shortly wait you, And 'twill be glorious work. _Gui._ If you are there, There must be action. _Gril._ O, your pardon, sir; I'm but a stripling in the trade of war: But you, whose life is one continued broil, What will not your triumphant arms accomplish! You, that were formed for mastery in war. That, with a start, cried to your brother Mayenne,-- "To horse!" and slaughtered forty thousand Germans[9]. _Gui._ Let me beseech you, colonel, no more. _Gril._ But, sir, since I must make at least a figure In this great business, let me understand What 'tis you mean, and why you force the king Upon so dangerous an expedition. _Gui._ Sir, I intend the greatness of the king; The greatness of all France, whom it imports To make their arms their business, aim, and glory; And where so proper as upon those rebels, That covered all the state with blood and death? _Gril._ Stored arsenals and armouries, fields of horse, Ordnance, munition, and the nerve of war, Sound infantry, not harassed and diseased, To meet the fierce Navarre, should first be thought on. _Gui._ I find, my lord, the argument grows warm, Therefore, thus much, and I have done: I go To join the Holy League in this great war, In which no place of office, or command, Not of the greatest, shall be bought or sold; Whereas too often honours are conferred On soldiers, and no soldiers: This man knighted, Because he charged a troop before his dinner, And sculked behind a hedge i'the afternoon: I will have strict examination made Betwixt the meritorious and the base. _Gril._ You have mouthed it bravely, and there is no doubt Your deeds would answer well your haughty words; Yet let me tell you, sir, there is a man, (Curse on the hearts that hate him!) that would better, Better than you, or all your puffy race, That better would become the great battalion; That when he shines in arms, and suns the field, Moves, speaks, and fights, and is himself a war. _Gui._ Your idol, sir; you mean the great Navarre: But yet-- _Gril._ No _yet_, my lord of Guise, no _yet_; By arms, I bar you that; I swear, no _yet_; For never was his like, nor shall again. Though voted from his right by your cursed League. _Gui._ Judge not too rashly of the Holy League, But look at home. _Gril._ Ha! darest thou justify Those villains? _Gui._ I'll not justify a villain, More than yourself; but if you thus proceed, If every heated breath can puff away, On each surmise, the lives of free-born people, What need that awful general convocation, The assembly of the states?--nay, let me urge,-- If thus they vilify the Holy League, What may their heads expect? _Gril._ What, if I could, They should be certain of,--whole piles of fire. _Gui._ Colonel, 'tis very well I know your mind, Which, without fear, or flattery to your person, I'll tell the king; and then, with his permission, Proclaim it for a warning to our people. _Gril._ Come, you're a murderer yourself within, A traitor. _Gui._ Thou a ---- hot old hair-brained fool. _Gril._ You were complotter with the cursed League, The black abettor of our Harry's death. _Gui._ 'Tis false. _Gril._ 'Tis true, as thou art double-hearted: Thou double traitor, to conspire so basely; And when found out, more basely to deny't. _Gui._ O gracious Harry, let me sound thy name, Lest this old rust of war, this knotty trifler, Should raise me to extremes. _Gril._ If thou'rt a man, That didst refuse the challenge of Navarre, Come forth[10]. _Gui._ Go on; since thou'rt resolved on death, I'll follow thee, and rid thy shaking soul. _Enter King, Queen-Mother,_ ALPHONSO, _Abbot, &c._ But see, the king: I scorn to ruin thee, Therefore go tell him, tell him thy own story. _King._ Ha, colonel, is this your friendly visit? Tell me the truth, how happened this disorder? Those ruffled hands, red looks, and port of fury? _Gril._ I told him, sir, since you will have it so, He was the author of the rebel-league; Therefore, a traitor and a murderer. _King._ Is't possible? _Gui._ No matter, sir, no matter; A few hot words, no more, upon my life; The old man roused, and shook himself a little: So, if your majesty will do me honour, I do beseech you, let the business die. _King._ Grillon, submit yourself, and ask his pardon. _Gril._ Pardon me, I cannot do't. _King._ Where are the guards! _Gui._ Hold, sir;--come, colonel, I'll ask pardon for you; This soldierly embrace makes up the breach; We will be sorry, sir, for one another. _Gril._ My lord, I know not what to answer you; I'm friends,--and I am not,--and so farewell. [_Exit._ _King._ You have your orders; yet before you go, Take this embrace: I court you for my friend, Though Grillon would not. _Gui._ I thank you on my knees; And still, while life shall last, will take strict care To justify my loyalty to your person. [_Exit._ _Qu. M._ Excellent loyalty, to lock you up! _King._ I see even to the bottom of his soul; And, madam, I must say the Guise has beauties, But they are set in night, and foul design: He was my friend when young, and might be still. _Ab._ Marked you his hollow accents at the parting? _Qu. M._ Graves in his smiles. _King._ Death in his bloodless hands.-- O Marmoutiere! now I will haste to meet thee: The face of beauty, on this rising horror, Looks like the midnight moon upon a murder; It gilds the dark design that stays for fate, And drives the shades, that thicken, from the state. [_Exuent._ ACT III. SCENE I. _Enter_ GRILLON _and_ POLIN._ _Gril._ Have then this pious Council of Sixteen Scented your late discovery of the plot? _Pol._ Not as from me; for still I kennel with them. And bark as loud as the most deep-mouthed traitor, Against the king, his government, and laws; Whereon immediately there runs a cry Of,--Seize him on the next procession! seize him. And clap the Chilperick in a monastery! Thus it was fixt, as I before discovered; But when, against his custom, they perceived The king absented, strait the rebels met, And roared,--they were undone. _Gril._ O, 'tis like them; 'Tis like their mongrel souls: flesh them with fortune, And they will worry royalty to death; But if some crabbed virtue turn and pinch them, Mark me, they'll run, and yelp, and clap their tails, Like curs, betwixt their legs, and howl for mercy. _Pol._ But Malicorn, sagacious on the point, Cried,--Call the sheriffs, and bid them arm their bands; Add yet to this, to raise you above hope, The Guise, my master, will be here to-day.-- For on bare guess of what has been revealed, He winged a messenger to give him notice; Yet, spite of all this factor of the fiends Could urge, they slunk their heads, like hinds in storms. But see, they come. _Enter Sheriffs, with the Populace._ _Gril._ Away, I'll have amongst them; Fly to the king, warn him of Guise's coming, That he may strait despatch his strict commands To stop him. [_Exit_ POLIN. _1 Sher._ Nay, this is colonel Grillon, The blunderbuss o'the court; away, away, He carries ammunition in his face. _Gril._ Hark you, my friends, if you are not in haste, Because you are the pillars of the city, I would inform you of a general ruin. _2 Sher._ Ruin to the city! marry, heaven forbid! _Gril._ Amen, I say; for, look you, I'm your friend. 'Tis blown about, you've plotted on the king, To seize him, if not kill him; for, who knows, When once your conscience yields, how far 'twill stretch; Next, quite to dash your firmest hopes in pieces, The duke of Guise is dead. _1 Sher._ Dead, colonel! _2 Sher._ Undone, undone! _Gril._ The world cannot redeem you; For what, sirs, if the king, provoked at last, Should join the Spaniard, and should fire your city; Paris, your head,--but a most venomous one,-- Which must be blooded? _1 Sher._ Blooded, colonel! _Gril._ Ay, blooded, thou most infamous magistrate, Or you will blood the king, and burn the Louvre; But ere that be, fall million miscreant souls, Such earth-born minds as yours; for, mark me, slaves, Did you not, ages past, consign your lives, Liberties, fortunes, to Imperial hands, Made them the guardians of your sickly years? And now you're grown up to a booby's greatness, What, would you wrest the sceptre from his hand? Now, by the majesty of kings I swear, You shall as soon be saved for packing juries. _1 Sher._ Why, sir, mayn't citizens be saved? _Gril._ Yes, sir, From drowning, to be hanged, burnt, broke o'the wheel. _1 Sher._ Colonel, you speak us plain. _Gril._ A plague confound you, Why should I not? what is there in such rascals, Should make me hide my thought, or hold my tongue? Now, in the devil's name, what make you here, Daubing the inside of the court, like snails, Sliming our walls, and pricking out your horns? To hear, I warrant, what the king's a doing, And what the cabinet-council; then to the city, To spread your monstrous lies, and sow sedition? Wild fire choke you! _1 Sher._ Well, we'll think of this; And so we take our leaves. _Gril._ Nay, stay, my masters; For I'm a thinking now just whereabouts Grow the two tallest trees in Arden forest. _1 Sher._ For what, pray, colonel, if we may be so bold? _Gril._ Why, to hang you upon the highest branches. 'Fore God, it will be so; and I shall laugh To see you dangling to and fro i'the air, With the honest crows pecking your traitors' limbs. _All._ Good colonel! _Gril._ Good rats, my precious vermin. You moving dirt, you rank stark muck o'the world, You oven-bats, you things so far from souls, Like dogs, you're out of Providence's reach, And only fit for hanging; but be gone, And think of plunder.--You right elder sheriff, Who carved our Henry's image on a table, At your club-feast, and after stabbed it through,--[11] _1 Sher._ Mercy, good colonel. _Gril._ Run with your nose to earth; Run, blood-hound, run, and scent out royal murder.-- You second rogue, but equal to the first, Plunder, go hang,--nay, take your tackling with you, For these shall hold you fast,--your slaves shall hang you. To the mid region in the sun: Plunder! Begone, vipers, asps, and adders! [_Exeunt Sheriffs and People._ _Enter_ MALICORN. Ha! but here comes a fiend, that soars above; A prince o'the air, that sets the mud a moving. _Mal._ Colonel, a word. _Gril._ I hold no speech with villains. _Mal._ But, sir, it may concern your fame and safety. _Gril._ No matter; I had rather die traduced, Than live by such a villain's help as thine. _Mal._ Hate then the traitor, but yet love the treason. _Gril._ Why, are you not a villain? _Mal._ 'Tis confessed. _Gril._ Then, in the name of all thy brother-devils, What wouldst thou have with me? _Mal._ I know you're honest; Therefore it is my business to disturb you. _Gril._ 'Fore God, I'll beat thee, if thou urge me farther. _Mal._ Why, though you should, yet, if you hear me after, The pleasure I shall take in your vexation, Will heal my bruises. _Gril._ Wert thou definite rogue, I'faith, I think, that I should give thee hearing; But such a boundless villainy as thine Admits no patience. _Mal._ Your niece is come to court, And yields her honour to our Henry's bed. _Gril._ Thou liest, damned villain. [_Strikes him._ _Mal._ So: why this I looked for; But yet I swear by hell, and my revenge, 'Tis true, as you have wronged me. _Gril._ Wronged thee, villain! And name revenge! O wert thou Grillon's match, And worthy of my sword, I swear, by this One had been past an oath; but thou'rt a worm, And if I tread thee, darest not turn again. _Mal._ 'Tis false; I dare, like you, but cannot act; There is no force in this enervate arm. Blasted I was ere born--curse on my stars!-- Got by some dotard in his pithless years, And sent a withered sapling to the world. Yet I have brain, and there is my revenge; Therefore I say again, these eyes have seen Thy blood at court, bright as a summer's morn, When all the heaven is streaked with dappled fires. And flecked with blushes like a rifled maid; Nay, by the gleamy fires that melted from her, Fast sighs and smiles, swol'n lips, and heaving breasts, My soul presages Henry has enjoyed her. _Gril._ Again thou liest! and I will crumble thee, Thou bottled spider, into thy primitive earth, Unless thou swear thy very thought's a lie. _Mal._ I stand in adamant, and thus defy thee! Nay, draw, and with the edge betwixt my lips, Even while thou rak'st it through my teeth, I'll swear All I have said is true, as thou art honest, Or I a villain. _Gril._ Damned infamous wretch! So much below my scorn, I dare not kill thee; And yet so much my hate, that I must fear thee. For should it be as thou hast said, not all The trophies of my laurelled honesty Should bar me from forsaking this bad world, And never draw my sword for Henry more. _Mal._ Ha! 'tis well, and now I am revenged. I was in hopes thou wouldst have uttered treason, And forfeited thy head, to pay me fully. _Gril._ Hast thou compacted for a lease of years With hell, that thus thou ventured to provoke me? _Mal._ Perhaps I have: (How right the blockhead hits!) Yet more to rack thy heart, and break thy brain, Thy niece has been before the Guise's mistress. _Gril._ Hell-hound, avaunt! _Mal._ Forgive my honest meaning. [_Exit._ _Gril._ 'Tis hatched beneath, a plot upon mine honour; And thus he lays his baits to catch my soul:-- Ha! but the presence opens; who comes here? By heaven, my niece! led by Alphonso Corso! Ha, Malicorn! is't possible? truth from thee! 'Tis plain! and I, in justifying woman, Have done the devil wrong. _Enter_ ALPHONSO CORSO, _leading in_ MARMOUTIERE. _Alph._ Madam, the king (Please you to sit) will instantly attend you. [_Exit._ _Gril._ Death, hell, and furies! ha! she comes to seek him!-- O prostitute!--and, on her prodigal flesh, She has lavished all the diamonds of the Guise, To set her off, and sell her to the king. _Mar._ O heavens! did ever virgin yet attempt An enterprise like mine? I, that resolved Never to leave those dear delightful shades, But act the little part that nature gave me, On the green carpets of some guiltless grove, And having finished it, forsake the world; Unless sometimes my heart might entertain Some small remembrance of the taking Guise: But that far, far from any darkening thought, To cloud my honour, or eclipse my virtue. _Gril._ Thou liest! and if thou hadst not glanced aside, And spied me coming, I had had it all. _Mar._ By heaven! by all that's good-- _Gril._ Thou hast lost thy honour. Give me this hand, this hand by which I caught thee From the bold ruffian in the massacre, That would have stained thy almost infant honour, With lust, and blood;--dost thou remember it? _Mar._ I do, and bless the godlike arm, that saved me. _Gril._ 'Tis false! thou hast forgot my generous action; And now thou laugh'st, to think how thou hast cheated, For all his kindness, this old grisled fool. _Mar._ Forbid it heaven! _Gril._ But oh, that thou hadst died Ten thousand deaths, ere blasted Grillon's glory; Grillon, that saved thee from a barbarous world. Where thou hadst starved, or sold thyself for bread; Took thee into his bosom, fostered thee As his own soul, and laid thee in his heart-strings; And now, for all my cares, to serve me thus! O 'tis too much, ye powers! double confusion On all my wars; and oh,--out, shame upon thee! It wrings the tears from Grillon's iron heart, And melts me to a babe. _Mar._ Sir! father! hear me! I come to court, to save the life of Guise. _Gril._ And prostitute thy honour to the king. _Mar._ I have looked, perhaps, too nicely for my sex, Into the dark affairs of fatal state; And, to advance this dangerous inquisition, I listened to the love of daring Guise. _Gril._ By arms, by honesty, I swear thou lovest him! _Mar._ By heaven, that gave those arms success, I swear I do not, as you think! but take it all. I have heard the Guise, not with an angel's temper, Something beyond the tenderness of pity, And yet, not love. Now, by the powers that framed me, this is all! Nor should the world have wrought this close confession, But to rebate your jealousy of honour. _Gril._ I know not what to say, nor what to think; There's heaven still in thy voice, but that's a sign Virtue's departing; for thy better angel Still makes the woman's tongue his rising ground, Wags there a while, and takes his flight for ever. _Mar._ You must not go. _Gril._ Though I have reason, plain As day, to judge thee false, I think thee true: By heaven, methinks I see a glory round thee! There's something says, thou wilt not lose thy honour:-- Death and the devil! that's my own honesty; My foolish open nature, that would have All like myself;--but off; I'll hence and curse thee! _Mar._ O, stay! _Gril._ I will not. _Mar._ Hark! the king's coming. Let me conjure you, for your own soul's quiet, And for the everlasting rest of mine, Stir not, till you have heard my heart's design. _Gril._ Angel, or devil, I will.--Nay, at this rate, She'll make me shortly bring him to her bed.-- Bawd for him? no, he shall make me run my head Into a cannon, when 'tis firing, first; That's honourable sport. But I'll retire, And if she plays me false, here's that shall mend her. [_Touching his Dagger, exit._ MARMOUTIERE _sits. Song and Dance._ _Enter the King._ _King._ After the breathing of a love-sick heart Upon your hand, once more,--nay twice,--forgive me. _Mar._ I discompose you, sir. _King._ Thou dost, by heaven; But with such charming pleasure, I love, and tremble, as at angels' view. _Mar._ Love me, my lord? _King._ Who should be loved, but you? So loved, that even my crown, and self are vile, While you are by. Try me upon despair; My kingdom at the stake, ambition starved, Revenge forgot, and all great appetites That whet uncommon spirits to aspire, So once a day I may have leave-- Nay, madam, then you fear me. _Mar._ Fear you, sir! what is there dreadful in you? You've all the graces that can crown mankind; Yet wear them so, as if you did not know them; So stainless, fearless, free in all your actions, As if heaven lent you to the world to pattern. _King._ Madam, I find you are no petitioner; My people would not treat me in this sort, Though 'twere to gain a part of their design; But to the Guise they deal their faithless praise As fast, as you your flattery to me; Though for what end I cannot guess, except You come, like them, to mock at my misfortunes. _Mar._ Forgive you, heaven, that thought! No, mighty monarch, The love of all the good, and wonder of the great; I swear, by heaven, my heart adores, and loves you. _King._ O madam, rise. _Mar._ Nay, were you, sir, unthroned By this seditious rout that dare despise you, Blast all my days, ye powers! torment my nights; Nay, let the misery invade my sex, That could not for the royal cause, like me, Throw all their luxury before your feet, And follow you, like pilgrims, through the world. _Gril._ Sound wind and limb! 'fore God, a gallant girl! [_Aside._ _King._ What shall I answer to thee, O thou balm To heal a broken, yet a kingly heart! For, so I swear I will be to my last. Come to my arms, and be thy Harry's angel, Shine through my cares, and make my crown sit easy. _Mar._ O never, sir. _King._ What said you, Marmoutiere? Why dost thou turn thy beauties into frowns? _Mar._ You know, sir, 'tis impossible; no more. _King._ No more?--and with that stern resolved behaviour? By heaven! were I a dying, and the priest Should urge my last confession, I'd cry out, Oh Marmoutiere! and yet thou say'st,--No more! _Mar._ 'Tis well, sir; I have lost my aim, farewell. _King._ Come back! O stay, my life flows after you. _Mar._ No, sir, I find I am a trouble to you; You will not hear my suit. _King._ You cannot go, You shall not.--O your suit, I kneel to grant it; I beg you take whatever you demand. _Mar._ Then, sir, thus low, or prostrate if you please, Let me intreat for Guise. _King._ Ha, madam, what! For Guise; for Guise! that stubborn arrogant rebel, That laughs at proffered mercy, slights his pardon, Mocks royal grace, and plots upon my life? Ha! and do you protect him? then the world Is sworn to Henry's death: Does beauty too, And innocence itself conspire against me? Then let me tamely yield my glories up, Which once I vowed with my drawn sword to wear To my last drop of blood.--Come Guise, come cardinal, All you loved traitors, come--I strip to meet you; Sheathe all your daggers in curst Henry's heart. _Mar._ This I expected; but when you have heard How far I would intreat your majesty, Perhaps you'll be more calm. _King._ See, I am hushed; Speak then; how far, madam, would you command? _Mar._ Not to proceed to last extremities, Before the wound is desperate. Think alone, For no man judges like your majesty: Take your own methods; all the heads of France Cannot so well advise you, as yourself. Therefore resume, my lord, your god-like temper, Yet do not bear more than a monarch should; Believe it, sir, the more your majesty Draws back your arm, the more of fate it carries. _King._ Thou genius of my state, thou perfect model Of heaven itself, and abstract of the angels, Forgive the late disturbance of my soul! I'm clear by nature, as a rockless stream; But they dig through the gravel of my heart, And raise the mud of passions up to cloud me; Therefore let me conjure you, do not go; 'Tis said, the Guise will come in spite of me; Suppose it possible, and stay to advise me. _Mar._ I will; but, on your royal word, no more. _King._ I will be easy, To my last gasp, as your own virgin thoughts, And never dare to breathe my passion more; Yet you'll allow me now and then to sigh As we discourse, and court you with my eyes? _Enter_ ALPHONSO. Why do you wave your hand, and warn me hence? So looks the poor condemned, When justice beckons, there's no hope of pardon. Sternly, like you, the judge the victim eyes, And thus, like me, the wretch, despairing, dies. [_Exit with_ ALPHONSO. _Enter_ GRILLON. _Gril._ O rare, rare creature! By the power that made me, Wer't possible we could be damned again By some new Eve, such virtue might redeem us. Oh I could clasp thee, but that my arms are rough, Till all thy sweets were broke with my embraces, And kiss thy beauties to a dissolution! _Mar._ Ah father, uncle, brother, all the kin, The precious blood that's left me in the world, Believe, dear sir, whate'er my actions seem, I will not lose my virtue, for a throne. _Gril._ Why, I will carve thee out a throne myself; I'll hew down all the kings in Christendom, And seat thee on their necks, as high as heaven. _Enter Abbot_ DELBENE. _Abb._ Colonel, your ear. _Mar._ By these whispering councils, My soul presages that the Guise is coming. If he dares come, were I a man, a king, I'd sacrifice him in the city's sight.-- O heavens! what was't I said? Were I a man, I know not that; but, as I am a virgin, If I would offer thee, too lovely Guise, It should be kneeling to the throne of mercy.-- Ha! then thou lovest, that thou art thus concerned. Down, rising mischief, down, or I will kill thee, Even in thy cause, and strangle new-born pity!-- Yet if he were not married!--ha, what then? His charms prevail;--no, let the rebel die. I faint beneath this strong oppression here; Reason and love rend my divided soul; Heaven be the judge, and still let virtue conquer. Love to his tune my jarring heart would bring, But reason over-winds, and cracks the string. [_Exit._ _Abb._ The king dispatches order upon order, With positive command to stop his coming. Yet there is notice given to the city; Besides, Belleure brought but a half account, How that the Guise replied, he would obey His majesty in all; yet, if he might Have leave to justify himself before him, He doubted not his cause. _Gril._ The axe, the axe: Rebellion's pampered to a pleurisy, And it must bleed. [_Shout within._ _Abb._ Hark, what a shout was there! I'll to the king; it may be, 'tis reported On purpose thus. Let there be truth or lies In this mad fame, I'll bring you instant word. [_Exit Abbot._ _Manet_ GRILLON: _Enter_ GUISE, CARDINAL, MAYENNE, MALICORN, _Attendants, &c. Shouts again._ _Gril._ Death, and thou devil Malicorn, is that Thy master? _Gui._ Yes, Grillon, 'tis the Guise; One, that would court you for a friend. _Gril._ A friend! Traitor thou mean'st, and so I bid thee welcome; But since thou art so insolent, thy blood Be on thy head, and fall by me unpitied. [_Exit._ _Gui._ The bruises of his loyalty have crazed him. [_Shouts louder._ _Spirit within sings._ _Malicorn, Malicorn, Malicorn, ho! If the Guise resolves to go, I charge, I warn thee let him know, Perhaps his head may lie too low._ _Gui._ Why, Malicorn. _Mal._ [_Starting._] Sir, do not see the king. _Gui._ I will. _Mal._ 'Tis dangerous. _Gui._ Therefore I will see him, And so report my danger to the people. Halt--to your judgment.--[MALICORN _makes signs of Assassination._] Let him, if he dare.-- But more, more, more;--why, Malicorn!--again? I thought a look, with us, had been a language; I'll talk my mind on any point but this By glances;--ha! not yet? thou mak'st me blush At thy delay; why, man, 'tis more than life, Ambition, or a crown[12]. _Mal._ What, Marmoutiere? _Gui._ Ay, there a general's heart beat like a drum! Quick, quick! my reins, my back, and head and breast Ache, as I'd been a horse-back forty hours. _Mal._ She has seen the king. _Gui._ I thought she might. A trick upon me; well. _Mal._ Passion o' both sides. _Gui._ His, thou meanest. _Mal._ On hers. Down on her knees. _Gui._ And up again; no matter. _Mal._ Now all in tears, now smiling, sad at parting. _Gui._ Dissembled, for she told me this before; 'Twas all put on, that I might hear and rave. _Mal._ And so, to make sure work on't, by consent Of Grillon, who is made their bawd,-- _Gui._ Away! _Mal._ She's lodged at court. _Gui._ 'Tis false, they do belie her. _Mal._ But, sir, I saw the apartment. _Gui._ What, at court? _Mal._ At court, and near the king; 'tis true, by heaven: I never play'd you foul, why should you doubt me? _Gui._ I would thou hadst, ere thus unmanned my heart! Blood, battles, fire, and death! I run, I run! With this last blow he drives me like a coward; Nay, let me never win a field again, If, with the thought of these irregular vapours, The blood ha'nt burst my lips. _Card._ Peace, brother. _Gui._ By heaven, I took thee for my soul's physician, And dost thou vomit me with this loathed peace? 'Tis contradiction: no, my peaceful brother, I'll meet him now, though fire-armed cherubins Should cross my way. O jealousy of love! Greater than fame! thou eldest of the passions, Or rather all in one, I here invoke thee, Where'er thou'rt throned in air, in earth, or hell, Wing me to my revenge, to blood, and ruin! _Card._ Have you no temper? _Gui._ Pray, sir, give me leave. A moment's thought;--ha, but I sweat and tremble, My brain runs this and that way; it will not fix On aught but vengeance.--Malicorn, call the people. [_Shouts within._ But hark, they shout again: I'll on and meet them; Nay, head them to his palace, as my guards. Yet more, on such exalted causes borne, I'll wait him in his cabinet alone, And look him pale; while in his courts without, The people shout him dead with their alarms, And make his mistress tremble in his arms. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter King and Council._ [_Shouts without._ _King._ What mean these shouts? _Abb._ I told your majesty, The sheriffs have puffed the populace with hopes Of their deliverer. [_Shouts again._ _King._ Hark! there rung a peal Like thunder: see, Alphonso, what's the cause. _Enter_ GRILLON. _Gril._ My lord, the Guise is come. _King._ Is't possible! ha, Grillon, said'st thou, come? _Gril._ Why droops the royal majesty? O sir! _King._ O villain, slave, wert thou my late-born heir, Given me by heaven, even when I lay a-dying-- But peace, thou festering thought, and hide thy wound;-- Where is he? _Gril._ With her majesty, your mother; She has taken chair, and he walks bowing by her, With thirty thousand rebels at his heels. _King._ What's to be done? No pall upon my spirit; But he that loves me best, and dares the most On this nice point of empire, let him speak. _Alph._ I would advise you, sir, to call him in, And kill him instantly upon the spot. _Abb._ I like Alphonso's counsel, short, sure work; Cut off the head, and let the body walk. _Enter_ QUEEN-MOTHER. _Qu. M._ Sir, the Guise waits. _King._ He enters on his fate. _Qu. M._ Not so,--forbear; the city is up in arms; Nor doubt, if, in their heat, you cut him off, That they will spare the royal majesty. Once, sir, let me advise, and rule your fury. _King._ You shall: I'll see him, and I'll spare him now. _Qu. M._ What will you say? _King._ I know not;-- Colonel Grillon, call the archers in, Double your guards, and strictly charge the Swiss Stand to their arms, receive him as a traitor. [_Exit_ GRILLON. My heart has set thee down, O Guise, in blood,-- Blood, mother, blood, ne'er to be blotted out. _Qu. M._ Yet you'll relent, when this hot fit is over. _King._ If I forgive him, may I ne'er be forgiven! No, if I tamely bear such insolence, What act of treason will the villains stop at? Seize me, they've sworn; imprison me is the next, Perhaps arraign me, and then doom me dead. But ere I suffer that, fall all together, Or rather, on their slaughtered heaps erect My throne, and then proclaim it for example. I'm born a monarch, which implies alone To wield the sceptre, and depend on none. [_Exeunt[13]._ ACT IV. SCENE I._--The Louvre._ _A Chair of State placed; the King appears sitting in it; a Table by him, on which he leans; Attendants on each Side of him; amongst the rest,_ ABBOT, GRILLON, _and_ BELLIEURE. _The_ QUEEN-MOTHER _enters, led by the Duke of_ GUISE, _who makes his Approach with three Reverences to the King's Chair; after the third, the King rises, and coming forward, speaks._ _King._ I sent you word, you should not come. _Gui._ Sir, that I came-- _King._ Why, that you came, I see. Once more, I sent you word, you should not come. _Gui._ Not come to throw myself, with all submission, Beneath your royal feet! to put my cause And person in the hands of sovereign justice! _King._ Now 'tis with all submission,--that's the preface,-- Yet still you came against my strict command; You disobeyed me, duke, with all submission. _Gui._ Sir, 'twas the last necessity that drove me, To clear myself of calumnies, and slanders, Much urged, but never proved, against my innocence; Yet had I known 'twas your express command, I should not have approached. _King._ 'Twas as express, as words could signify;-- Stand forth, Bellieure,--it shall be proved you knew it,-- Stand forth, and to this false man's face declare Your message, word for word. _Bel._ Sir, thus it was. I met him on the way, And plain as I could speak, I gave your orders, Just in these following words:-- _King._ Enough, I know you told him; But he has used me long to be contemned, And I can still be patient, and forgive. _Gui._ And I can ask forgiveness, when I err; But let my gracious master please to know The true intent of my misconstrued faith. Should I not come to vindicate my fame From wrong constructions? And-- _King._ Come, duke, you were not wronged; your conscience knows You were not wronged; were you not plainly told, That, if you dared to set your foot in Paris, You should be held the cause of all commotions That should from thence ensue? and yet you came. _Gui._ Sir, will you please with patience but to hear me? _King._ I will; and would be glad, my lord of Guise, To clear you to myself. _Gui._ I had been told, There were in agitation here at court, Things of the highest note against religion, Against the common properties of subjects, And lives of honest well-affected men; I therefore judged,-- _King._ Then you, it seems, are judge Betwixt the prince and people? judge for them, And champion against me? _Gui._ I feared it might be represented so, And came resolved,-- _King._ To head the factious crowd. _Gui._ To clear my innocence. _King._ The means for that, Had been your absence from this hot-brained town, Where you, not I, are king!-- I feel my blood kindling within my veins; The genius of the throne knocks at my heart: Come what may come, he dies. _Qu. M._ [_Stopping the king._] What mean you, sir? You tremble and look pale; for heaven's sake think, 'Tis your own life you venture, if you kill him. _King._ Had I ten thousand lives, I'll venture all. Give me way, madam! _Qu. M._ Not to your destruction. The whole Parisian herd is at your gates; A crowd's a name too small, they are a nation, Numberless, armed, enraged, one soul informs them. _King._ And that one soul's the Guise. I'll rend it out, And damn the rabble all at once in him. _Gui._ My fate is now in the balance; fool within, I thank thee for thy foresight. [_Aside._ _Qu. M._ Your guards oppose them! _King._ Why not? a multitude's a bulky coward. _Qu. M._ By heaven, there are not limbs in all your guards, For every one a morsel. _King._ Caesar quelled them, But with a look and word. _Qu. M._ So Galba thought. _King._ But Galba was not Caesar. _Gui._ I must not give them time for resolution.-- [_Aside._ My journey, sir, has discomposed my health, [_To the king._ I humbly beg your leave, I may retire, Till your commands recall me to your service. [_Exit[14]._ _King._ So, you have counselled well; the traitor's gone, To mock the meekness of an injured king. [_To Qu. M._ Why did not you, who gave me part of life, Infuse my father stronger in my veins? But when you kept me cooped within your womb, You palled his generous blood with the dull mixture Of your Italian food, and milked slow arts Of womanish tameness in my infant mouth. Why stood I stupid else, and missed a blow, Which heaven and daring folly made so fair? _Qu. M._ I still maintain, 'twas wisely done to spare him. _Gril._ A pox on this unseasonable wisdom! He was a fool to come; if so, then they, Who let him go, were somewhat. _King._ The event, the event will shew us what we were; For, like a blazing meteor hence he shot, And drew a sweeping fiery train along.-- O Paris, Paris, once my seat of triumph, But now the scene of all thy king's misfortunes; Ungrateful, perjured, and disloyal town, Which by my royal presence I have warmed So long, that now the serpent hisses out, And shakes his forked tongue at majesty, While I-- _Qu. M._ While you lose time in idle talk, And use no means for safety and prevention. _King._ What can I do? O mother, Abbot, Grillon! All dumb! nay, then 'tis plain, my cause is desperate. Such an overwhelming ill makes grief a fool, As if redress were past. _Gril._ I'll go to the next sheriff, And beg the first reversion of a rope: Dispatch is all my business; I'll hang for you. _Abb._ 'Tis not so bad, as vainly you surmise; Some space there is, some little space, some steps Betwixt our fate and us: our foes are powerful, But yet not armed, nor marshalled into order; Believe it, sir, the Guise will not attempt, Till he have rolled his snow-ball to a heap. _King._ So then, my lord, we're a day off from death: What shall to-morrow do? _Abb._ To-morrow, sir, If hours between slide not too idly by, You may be master of their destiny, Who now dispose so loftily of yours. Not far without the suburbs there are quartered Three thousand Swiss, and two French regiments. _King._ Would they were here, and I were at their head! _Qu. M._ Send Mareschal Byron to lead them up. _King._ It shall be so: by heaven there's life in this! The wrack of clouds is driving on the winds, And shews a break of sunshine-- Go Grillon, give my orders to Byron, And see your soldiers well disposed within, For safeguard of the Louvre. _Qu. M._ One thing more: The Guise (his business yet not fully ripe,) Will treat, at least, for shew of loyalty; Let him be met with the same arts he brings. _King._ I know, he'll make exorbitant demands, But here your part of me will come in play; The Italian soul shall teach me how to sooth: Even Jove must flatter with an empty hand, 'Tis time to thunder, when he gripes the brand. [_Exeunt._ SCENE _II.--A Night Scene._ _Enter_ MALICORN _solus._ _Mal._ Thus far the cause of God; but God's or devil's,-- I mean my master's cause, and mine,--succeed, What shall the Guise do next? [_A flash of lightning._ _Enter the spirit_ MELANAX. _Mel._ First seize the king, and after murder him. _Mal._ Officious fiend, thou comest uncalled to-night. _Mel._ Always uncalled, and still at hand for mischief. _Mal._ But why in this fanatic habit, devil? Thou look'st like one that preaches to the crowd; Gospel is in thy face, and outward garb, And treason on thy tongue. _Mel._ Thou hast me right: Ten thousand devils more are in this habit; Saintship and zeal are still our best disguise: We mix unknown with the hot thoughtless crowd, And quoting scriptures, (which too well we know,) With impious glosses ban the holy text, And make it speak rebellion, schism, and murder; So turn the arms of heaven against itself. _Mal._ What makes the curate of St. Eustace here? _Mel._ Thou art mistaken, master; 'tis not he, But 'tis a zealous, godly, canting devil, Who has assumed the churchman's lucky shape, To talk the crowd to madness and rebellion. _Mal._ O true enthusiastic devil, true,-- (For lying is thy nature, even to me,) Did'st thou not tell me, if my lord, the Guise, Entered the court, his head should then lie low? That was a lie; he went, and is returned. _Mel._ 'Tis false; I said, _perhaps_ it should lie low; And, but I chilled the blood in Henry's veins, And crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts, Nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain, Even so it would have been. _Mal._ Thou hast deserved me, And I am thine, dear devil: what do we next? _Mel._ I said, first seize the king. _Mal._ Suppose it done: He's clapt within a convent, shorn a saint, My master mounts the throne. _Mel._ Not so fast, Malicorn; Thy master mounts not, till the king be slain. _Mal._ Not when deposed? _Mel._ He cannot be deposed: He may be killed, a violent fate attends him; But at his birth there shone a regal star. _Mal._ My master had a stronger. _Mel._ No, not a stronger, but more popular. Their births were full opposed, the Guise now strongest But if the ill influence pass o'er Harry's head, As in a year it will, France ne'er shall boast A greater king than he; now cut him off, While yet his stars are weak. _Mal._ Thou talk'st of stars: Can'st thou not see more deep into events, And by a surer way? _Mel._ No, Malicorn; The ways of heaven are broken since our fall, Gulph beyond gulph, and never to be shot. Once we could read our mighty Maker's mind, As in a crystal mirror, see the ideas Of things that always are, as he is always; Now, shut below in this dark sphere, By second causes dimly we may guess, And peep far off on heaven's revolving orbs, Which cast obscure reflections from the throne. _Mal._ Then tell me thy surmises of the future. _Mel._ I took the revolution of the year, Just when the Sun was entering in the Ham: The ascending Scorpion poisoned all the sky, A sign of deep deceit and treachery. Full on his cusp his angry master sate, Conjoined with Saturn, baleful both to man: Of secret slaughters, empires overturned, Strife, blood, and massacres, expect to hear, And all the events of an ill-omened year. _Mal._ Then flourish hell, and mighty mischief reign! Mischief, to some, to others must be good. But hark! for now, though 'tis the dead of night, When silence broods upon our darkened world, Methinks I hear a murmuring hollow sound, Like the deaf chimes of bells in steeples touched. _Mel._ It is truly guessed; But know, 'tis from no nightly sexton's hand. There's not a damned ghost, nor hell-born fiend, That can from limbo 'scape, but hither flies; With leathern wings they beat the dusky skies, To sacred churches all in swarms repair; Some crowd the spires, but most the hallowed bells, } And softly toll for souls departing knells: } Each chime, thou hear'st, a future death foretells, } Now there they perch to have them in their eyes, 'Till all go loaded to the nether skies[15]. _Mal._ To-morrow then. _Mel._ To-morrow let it be; Or thou deceiv'st those hungry, gaping fiends, And Beelzebub will rage. _Mal._ Why Beelzebub? hast thou not often said, That Lucifer's your king? _Mel._ I told thee true; But Lucifer, as he who foremost fell, So now lies lowest in the abyss of hell, Chained till the dreadful doom; in place of whom Sits Beelzebub, vicegerent of the damned, Who, listening downward, hears his roaring lord, And executes his purpose.--But no more[16]. The morning creeps behind yon eastern hill, And now the guard is mine, to drive the elves, And foolish fairies, from their moonlight play, And lash the laggers from the sight of day. [_Descends._ [_Exit_ MAL. SCENE III. _Enter_ GUISE, MAYENNE, CARDINAL, _and_ ARCHBISHOP. _May._ Sullen, methinks, and slow the morning breaks, As if the sun were listless to appear, And dark designs hung heavy on the day. _Gui._ You're an old man too soon, you're superstitious; I'll trust my stars, I know them now by proof; The genius of the king bends under mine: Environed with his guards, he durst not touch me; But awed and cravened, as he had been spelled, Would have pronounced, Go kill the Guise, and durst not. _Card._ We have him in our power, coop'd in his court. Who leads the first attack? Now by yon heaven, That blushes at my scarlet robes, I'll doff This womanish attire of godly peace, And cry,--Lie there, Lord Cardinal of Guise. _Gui._ As much too hot, as Mayenne is too cool. But 'tis the manlier fault of the two. _Arch._ Have you not heard the king, preventing day, Received the guards into the city gates, The jolly Swisses marching to their fifes? The crowd stood gaping, heartless and amazed, Shrunk to their shops, and left the passage free. _Gui._ I would it should be so, 'twas a good horror[17]. First let them fear for rapes, and ransacked houses; That very fright, when I appear to head them, Will harden their soft city courages: Cold burghers must be struck, and struck like flints, Ere their hid fire will sparkle. _Arch._ I'm glad the king has introduced these guards. _Card._ Your reason. _Arch._ They are too few for us to fear; Our numbers in old martial men are more, The city not cast in; but the pretence, That hither they are brought to bridle Paris, Will make this rising pass for just defence. _May._ Suppose the city should not rise? _Gui._ Suppose, as well, the sun should never rise: He may not rise, for heaven may play a trick; But he has risen from Adam's time to ours. Is nothing to be left to noble hazard? No venture made, but all dull certainty? By heaven I'll tug with Henry for a crown, Rather than have it on tame terms of yielding: I scorn to poach for power. _Enter a Servant, who whispers_ GUISE. A lady, say'st thou, young and beautiful, Brought in a chair? Conduct her in.-- [_Exit Servant._ _Card._ You would be left alone? _Gui._ I would; retire. [_Exeunt_ MAY. CARD. _&c._ _Re-enter Servant with_ MARMOUTIERE, _and exit._ _Starting back._] Is't possible? I dare not trust my eyes! You are not Marmoutiere? _Mar._ What am I then? _Gui._ Why, any thing but she: What should the mistress of a king do here? _Mar._ Find him, who would be master of a king. _Gui._ I sent not for you, madam. _Mar._ I think, my lord, the king sent not for you. _Gui._ Do you not fear, your visit will be known? _Mar._ Fear is for guilty men, rebels, and traitors: Where'er I go, my virtue is my guard. _Gui._ What devil has sent thee here to plague my soul? O that I could detest thee now as much As ever I have loved, nay, even as much As yet, in spite of all thy crimes, I love! But 'tis a love so mixt with dark despair, The smoke and soot smother the rising flame, And make my soul a furnace. Woman, woman, What can I call thee more? if devil, 'twere less. Sure, thine's a race was never got by Adam, But Eve played false, engendering with the serpent, Her own part worse than his. _Mar._ Then they got traitors. _Gui._ Yes, angel-traitors, fit to shine in palaces, Forked into ills, and split into deceits; Two in their very frame. 'Twas well, 'twas well, I saw thee not at court, thou basilisk; For if I had, those eyes, without his guards, Had done the tyrant's work. _Mar._ Why then it seems I was not false in all: I told you, Guise, If you left Paris, I would go to court: You see I kept my promise. _Gui._ Still thy sex: Once true in all thy life, and that for mischief. _Mar._ Have I said I loved you? _Gui._ Stab on, stab: 'Tis plain you love the king. _Mar._ Nor him, nor you, In that unlawful way you seem to mean. My eyes had once so far betrayed my heart, As to distinguish you from common men; Whate'er you said, or did, was charming all. _Gui._ But yet, it seems, you found a king more charming. _Mar._ I do not say more charming, but more noble, More truly royal, more a king in soul, Than you are now in wishes. _Gui._ May be so: But love has oiled your tongue to run so glib,-- Curse on your eloquence! _Mar._ Curse not that eloquence that saved your life: For, when your wild ambition, which defied A royal mandate, hurried you to town; When over-weening pride of popular power Had thrust you headlong in the Louvre toils, Then had you died: For know, my haughty lord, Had I not been, offended majesty Had doomed you to the death you well deserved. _Gui._ Then was't not Henry's fear preserved my life? _Mar._ You know him better, or you ought to know him: He's born to give you fear, not to receive it. _Gui._ Say this again; but add, you gave not up Your honour as the ransom of my life; For, if you did, 'twere better I had died. _Mar._ And so it were. _Gui._ Why said you, so it were? For though 'tis true, methinks 'tis much unkind. _Mar._ My lord, we are not now to talk of kindness. If you acknowledge I have saved your life, Be grateful in return, and do an act, Your honour, though unasked by me, requires. _Gui._ By heaven, and you, whom next to heaven I love, (If I said more, I fear I should not lie,) I'll do whate'er my honour will permit. _Mar._ Go, throw yourself at Henry's royal feet, And rise not till approved a loyal subject. _Gui._ A duteous loyal subject I was ever. _Mar._ I'll put it short, my lord; depart from Paris. _Gui._ I cannot leave My country, friends, religion, all at stake. Be wise, and be before-hand with your fortune; Prevent the turn, forsake the ruined court; Stay here, and make a merit of your love. _Mar._ No; I'll return, and perish in those ruins. I find thee now, ambitious, faithless, Guise. Farewell, the basest and the last of men! _Gui._ Stay, or--O heaven!--I'll force you: Stay-- _Mar._ I do believe So ill of you, so villainously ill, That, if you durst, you would: Honour you've little, honesty you've less; But conscience you have none: Yet there's a thing called fame, and men's esteem, Preserves me from your force. Once more, farewell. Look on me, Guise; thou seest me now the last; Though treason urge not thunder on thy head, This one departing glance shall flash thee dead. [_Exit._ _Gui._ Ha, said she true? Have I so little honour? Why, then, a prize so easy and so fair Had never 'scaped my gripe: but mine she is; For that's set down as sure as Henry's fall. But my ambition, that she calls my crime;-- False, false, by fate! my right was born with me. And heaven confest it in my very frame; The fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels, Were crammed together for my single soul. _Enter_ MALICORN. _Mal._ My lord, you trifle precious hours away; The heavens look gaudily upon your greatness, And the crowned moments court you as they fly. Brisac and fierce Aumale have pent the Swiss, And folded them like sheep in holy ground; Where now, with ordered pikes, and colours furled, They wait the word that dooms them all to die: Come forth, and bless the triumph of the day. _Gui._ So slight a victory required not me: I but sat still, and nodded, like a god, My world into creation; now 'tis time To walk abroad, and carelessly survey How the dull matter does the form obey. [_Exit with_ MALICORN. SCENE IV. _Enter Citizens, and_ MELANAX, _in his fanatic Habit, at the head them._ _Mel._ Hold, hold, a little, fellow citizens; and you, gentlemen of the rabble, a word of godly exhortation to strengthen your hands, ere you give the onset. _1 Cit._ Is this a time to make sermons? I would not hear the devil now, though he should come in God's name, to preach peace to us. _2 Cit._ Look you, gentlemen, sermons are not to be despised; we have all profited by godly sermons that promote sedition: let the precious man hold forth. _Omn._ Let him hold forth, let him hold forth. _Mel._ To promote sedition is my business: It has been so before any of you were born, and will be so, when you are all dead and damned; I have led on the rabble in all ages. _1 Cit._ That's a lie, and a loud one. _2 Cit._ He has led the rabble both old and young, that's all ages: A heavenly sweet man, I warrant him; I have seen him somewhere in a pulpit. _Mel._ I have sown rebellion every where. _1 Cit._ How, every where? That's another lie: How far have you travelled, friend? _Mel._ Over all the world. _1 Cit._ Now, that's a rapper. _2 Cit._ I say no: For, look you, gentlemen, if he has been a traveller, he certainly says true, for he may lie by authority. _Mel._ That the rabble may depose their prince, has in all times, and in all countries, been accounted lawful. _1 Cit._ That's the first true syllable he has uttered: but as how, and whereby, and when, may they depose him? _Mel._ Whenever they have more power to depose, than he has to oppose; and this they may do upon the least occasion. _1 Cit._ Sirrah, you mince the matter; you should say, we may do it upon no occasion, for the less the better. _Mel._ [_Aside._] Here's a rogue now, will out-shoot the devil in his own bow. _2 Cit._ Some occasion, in my mind, were not amiss: for, look you, gentlemen, if we have no occasion, then whereby we have no occasion to depose him; and therefore, either religion or liberty, I stick to those occasions; for when they are gone, good night to godliness and freedom. _Mel._ When the most are of one side, as that's our case, we are always in the right; for they, that are in power, will ever be the judges: so that if we say white is black, poor white must lose the cause, and put on mourning; for white is but a single syllable, and we are a whole sentence. Therefore, go on boldly, and lay on resolutely for your Solemn League and Covenant; and if here be any squeamish conscience who fears to fight against the king,--though I, that have known you, citizens, these thousand years, suspect not any,--let such understand that his majesty's politic capacity is to be distinguished from his natural; and though you murder him in one, you may preserve him in the other; and so much for this time, because the enemy is at hand. _2 Cit._ [_Looking out._] Look you, gentlemen, 'tis Grillon, the fierce colonel; he that devours our wives, and ravishes our children. _1 Cit._ He looks so grum, I don't care to have to do with him; would I were safe in my shop, behind the counter. _2 Cit._ And would I were under my wife's petticoats. Look you, gentlemen. _Mel._ You, neighbour, behind your counter, yesterday paid a bill of exchange in glass louis d'ors; and you, friend, that cry, look you, gentlemen, this very morning was under another woman's petticoats, and not your wife's. _2 Cit._ How the devil does he know this? _Mel._ Therefore, fight lustily for the cause of heaven, and to make even tallies for your sins; which, that you may do with a better conscience, I absolve you both, and all the rest of you: Now, go on merrily; for those, that escape, shall avoid killing; and those, who do not escape, I will provide for in another world. [_Cry within, on the other side of the stage,_ Vive le Roi, vive le Roi! _Enter_ GRILLON, _and his Party._ _Gril._ Come on, fellow soldiers, _Commilitones_; that's my word, as 'twas Julius Caesar's, of pagan memory. 'Fore God, I am no speech maker; but there are the rogues, and here's bilbo, that's a word and a blow; we must either cut their throats, or they cut ours, that's pure necessity, for your comfort: Now, if any man can be so unkind to his own body,--for I meddle not with your souls,--as to stand still like a good Christian, and offer his weasand to a butcher's whittle,--I say no more, but that he may be saved, and that's the best can come on him. [_Cry on both sides,_ Vive le Roi, vive Guise! _They fight._ _Mel._ Hey, for the duke of Guise, and property! Up with religion and the cause, and down with those arbitrary rogues there! Stand to't, you associated cuckolds. [_Citizens go back._] O rogues! O cowards!--Damn these half-strained shopkeepers, got between gentlemen and city wives; how naturally they quake, and run away from their own fathers! twenty souls a penny were a dear bargain of them. [_They all run off,_ MELANAX _with them; the 1st and 2d Citizens taken._ _Gril._ Possess yourselves of the place, Maubert, and hang me up those two rogues, for an example. _1 Cit._ O spare me, sweet colonel; I am but a young beginner, and new set up. _Gril._ I'll be your customer, and set you up a little better, sirrah;--go, hang him at the next sign-post:--What have you to say for yourself, scoundrel? why were you a rebel? _2 Cit._ Look you, colonel, 'twas out of no ill meaning to the government; all that I did, was pure obedience to my wife. _Gril._ Nay, if thou hast a wife that wears the breeches, thou shalt be condemned to live: Get thee home for a hen-pecked traitor.--What, are we encompassed? Nay, then, faces this way; we'll sell our skins to the fairest chapmen. _Enter_ AUMALE _and Soldiers, on the one side, Citizens on the other._ GRILLON, _and his Party, are disarmed._ _1 Cit._ Bear away that bloody-minded colonel, and hang him up at the next sign-post: Nay, when I am in power, I can make examples too. _Omn._ Tear him piece-meal; tear him piece-meal. [_Pull and haul him._ _Gril._ Rogues, villains, rebels, traitors, cuckolds! 'Swounds, what do you make of a man? do you think legs and arms are strung upon a wire, like a jointed baby? carry me off quickly, you were best, and hang me decently, according to my first sentence. _2 Cit._ Look you, colonel; you are too bulky to be carried off all at once; a leg or an arm is one man's burden: give me a little finger for a sample of him, whereby I'll carry it for a token to my sovereign lady. _Gril._ 'Tis too little, in all conscience, for her; take a bigger token, cuckold. _Et tu, Brute,_ whom I saved? O the conscience of a shopkeeper! _2 Cit._ Look you, colonel, for your saving of me, I thank you heartily, whereby that debt's paid; but for speaking treason against my anointed wife, that's a new reckoning between us. _Enter_ GUISE, _with a General's Staff in his Hand;_ MAYENNE, _Cardinal, Archbishop,_ MALICORN, _and Attendants._ _Omn._ _Vive_ Guise! _Gui._ [_Bowing, and bareheaded._] I thank you, countrymen: the hand of heaven In all our safeties has appeared this day. Stand on your guard, and double every watch, But stain your triumph with no Christian blood; French we are all, and brothers of a land. _Card._ What mean you, brother, by this godly talk, Of sparing Christian blood? why, these are dogs; Now, by the sword that cut off Malchus' ear, Mere dogs, that neither can be saved nor damned. _Arch._ Where have you learnt to spare inveterate foes? _Gui._ You know the book. _Arch._ And can expound it too: But Christian faith was in the nonage then, And Roman heathens lorded o'er the world. What madness were it for the weak and few, To fight against the many and the strong? Grillon must die, so must the tyrant's guards, Lest, gathering head again, they make more work. _Mal._ My lord, the people must be fleshed in blood, To teach them the true relish; dip them with you, Or they'll perhaps repent. _Gui._ You are fools; to kill them, were to shew I feared them; The court, disarmed, disheartened and besieged, Are all as much within my power, as if I griped them in my fist. _May._ 'Tis rightly judged: And, let me add, who heads a popular cause, Must prosecute that cause by popular ways: So, whether you are merciful or no, You must affect to be. _Gui._ Dismiss those prisoners.--Grillon, you are free; I do not ask your love, be still my foe. _Gril._ I will be so: but let me tell you, Guise, As this was greatly done, 'twas proudly too: I'll give you back your life when next we meet; 'Till then I am your debtor. _Gui._ That's till dooms-day. [GRILLON _and his Party exeunt one way, Rabble the other._ Haste, brother, draw out fifteen thousand men, Surround the Louvre, lest the prey should 'scape. I know the king will send to treat; We'll set the dice on him in high demands, No less than all his offices of trust; He shall be pared, and cantoned out, and clipped So long, he shall not pass. _Card._ What! do we talk Of paring, clipping, and such tedious work, Like those that hang their noses o'er a potion, And qualm, and keck, and take it down by sips! _Arch._ Best make advantage of this popular rage, Let in the o'erwhelming tide on Harry's head; In that promiscuous fury, who shall know, Among a thousand swords, who killed the king? _Mal._ O my dear lord, upon this only day Depends the series of your following fate: Think your good genius has assumed my shape, In this prophetic doom. _Gui._ Peace, croaking raven!-- I'll seize him first, then make him a led monarch; I'll be declared lieutenant-general Amidst the three estates, that represent The glorious, full, majestic face of France, Which, in his own despite, the king shall call: So let him reign my tenant during life, His brother of Navarre shut out for ever, Branded with heresy, and barred from sway; That, when Valois consumed in ashes lies, The Phoenix race of Charlemain may rise. [_Exeunt._ SCENE V.--_The Louvre._ _Enter King, Queen-Mother, Abbot, and_ GRILLON. _King._ Dismissed with such contempt? _Gril._ Yes, 'faith, we past like beaten Romans underneath the fork. _King._ Give me my arms. _Gril._ For what? _King._ I'll lead you on. _Gril._ You are a true lion, but my men are sheep; If you run first, I'll swear they'll follow you. _King._ What, all turned cowards? not a man in France Dares set his foot by mine, and perish by me? _Gril._ Troth, I can't find them much inclined to perishing. _King._ What can be left in danger, but to dare? No matter for my arms, I'll go barefaced, And seize the first bold rebel that I meet. _Abb._ There's something of divinity in kings, That sits between their eyes, and guards their life. _Gril._ True, Abbot; but the mischief is, you churchmen Can see that something further than the crowd; These musket bullets have not read much logic, Nor are they given to make your nice distinctions: [_One enters, and gives the Queen a Note, she reads--_ One of them possibly may hit the king In some one part of him that's not divine; And so that mortal part of his majesty would draw the divinity of it into another world, sweet Abbot. _Qu. M._ 'Tis equal madness to go out or stay; The reverence due to kings is all transferred To haughty Guise; and when new gods are made, The old must quit the temple; you must fly. _King._ Death! had I wings, yet would I scorn to fly. _Gril._ Wings, or no wings, is not the question: If you won't fly for't, you must ride for't, And that comes much to one. _King._ Forsake my regal town! _Qu. M._ Forsake a bedlam; This note informs me fifteen thousand men Are marching to inclose the Louvre round. _Abb._ The business then admits no more dispute, You, madam, must be pleased to find the Guise; Seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will; But still prolong the treaty all you can, To gain the king more time for his escape. _Qu. M._ I'll undertake it.--Nay, no thanks, my son. My blessing shall be given in your deliverance; That once performed, their web is all unravelled, And Guise is to begin his work again. [_Exit Q.M._ _King._ I go this minute. _Enter_ MARMOUTIERE. Nay, then another minute must be given.-- O how I blush, that thou shouldst see thy king Do this low act, that lessens all his fame: Death, must a rebel force me from my love! If it must be-- _Mar._ It must not, cannot be. _Gril._ No, nor shall not, wench, as long as my soul wears a body. _King._ Secure in that, I'll trust thee;--shall I trust thee? For conquerors have charms, and women frailty:-- Farewell thou mayst behold me king again; My soul's not yet deposed:--why then farewell!-- I'll say't as comfortably as I can: But O cursed Guise, for pressing on my time, And cutting off ten thousand more adieus! _Mar._ The moments that retard your flight are traitors. Make haste, my royal master, to be safe, And save me with you, for I'll share your fate. _King._ Wilt thou go too? Then I am reconciled to heaven again: O welcome, thou good angel of my way, Thou pledge and omen of my safe return! Not Greece, nor hostile Juno could destroy The hero that abandoned burning Troy; He 'scaped the dangers of the dreadful night, When, loaded with his gods, he took his flight. [_Exuent, the King leading her._ ACT V. SCENE I.--_The Castle of Blois._ _Enter_ GRILLON, _and_ ALPHONSO CORSO. _Gril._ Welcome, colonel, welcome to Blois. _Alph._ Since last we parted at the barricadoes, The world's turned upside down. _Gril._ No, 'faith, 'tis better now, 'tis downside up: Our part o'the wheel is rising, though but slowly. _Alph._ Who looked for an assembly of the States? _Gril._ When the king was escaped from Paris, and got out of the toils, 'twas time for the Guise to take them down, and pitch others: that is, to treat for the calling of a parliament, where, being sure of the major part, he might get by law what he had missed by force. _Alph._ But why should the king assemble the States, to satisfy the Guise, after so many affronts? _Gril._ For the same reason, that a man in a duel says he has received satisfaction, when he is first wounded, and afterwards disarmed. _Alph._ But why this parliament at Blois, and not at Paris? _Gril._ Because no barricadoes have been made at Blois. This Blois is a very little town, and the king can draw it after him; but Paris is a damned unwieldy bulk; and when the preachers draw against the king, a parson in a pulpit is a devilish fore-horse. Besides, I found in that insurrection what dangerous beasts these townsmen are; I tell you, colonel, a man had better deal with ten of their wives, than with one zealous citizen: O your inspired cuckold is most implacable. _Alph._ Is there any seeming kindness between the king and the duke of Guise? _Gril._ Yes, most wonderful: they are as dear to one another as an old usurer, and a rich young heir upon a mortgage. The king is very loyal to the Guise, and the Guise is very gracious to the king: Then the cardinal of Guise, and the archbishop of Lyons, are the two pendants that are always hanging at the royal ear; they ease his majesty of all the spiritual business, and the Guise of all the temporal; so that the king is certainly the happiest prince in Christendom, without any care upon him; so yielding up every thing to his loyal subjects, that he's infallibly in the way of being the greatest and most glorious king in all the world. _Alph._ Yet I have heard he made a sharp reflecting speech upon their party at the opening of the parliament, admonished men of their duties, pardoned what was past, but seemed to threaten vengeance if they persisted for the future. _Gril._ Yes; and then they all took the sacrament together: he promising to unite himself to them, and they to obey him, according to the laws; yet the very next morning they went on, in pursuance of their old commonwealth designs, as violently as ever. _Alph._ Now, I am dull enough to think they have broken their oath. _Gril._ Ay, but you are but one private man, and they are the three States; and if they vote that they have not broken their oaths, who is to be judge? _Alph._ There's one above. _Gril._ I hope you mean in heaven; or else you are a bolder man than I am in parliament time[18]; but here comes the master and my niece. _Alph._ Heaven preserve him! if a man may pray for him without treason. _Gril._ O yes, you may pray for him; the preachers of the Guise's side do that most formally; nay, you may be suffered civilly to drink his health; be of the court, and keep a place of profit under him: for, in short, 'tis a judged case of conscience, to make your best of the king, and to side against him. _Enter_ KING _and_ MARMOUTIERE. _King._ Grillon, be near me, There's something for my service to be done, Your orders will be sudden; now, withdraw. _Gril._ [_Aside._] Well, I dare trust my niece, even though she comes of my own family; but if she cuckolds my good opinion of her honesty, there's a whole sex fallen under a general rule, without one exception. [_Exeunt_ GRIL. _and_ ALPH. _Mar._ You bid my uncle wait you. _King._ Yes. _Mar._ This hour? _King._ I think it was. _Mar._ Something of moment hangs upon this hour. _King._ Not more on this, than on the next, and next. My time is all ta'en up on usury; I never am beforehand with my hours, But every one has work before it comes. _Mar._ "There's something for my service to be done;"-- Those were your words. _King._ And you desire their meaning? _Mar._ I dare not ask, and yet, perhaps, may guess. _King._ 'Tis searching there where heaven can only pry, Not man, who knows not man but by surmise; Nor devils, nor angels of a purer mould, Can trace the winding labyrinths of thought. I tell thee, Marmoutiere, I never speak, Not when alone, for fear some fiend should hear, And blab my secrets out. _Mar._ You hate the Guise. _King._ True, I did hate him. _Mar._ And you hate him still. _King._ I am reconciled. _Mar._ Your spirit is too high, Great souls forgive not injuries, till time Has put their enemies into their power, That they may shew, forgiveness is their own; For else, 'tis fear to punish, that forgives; The coward, not the king. _King._ He has submitted. _Mar._ In show; for in effect he still insults. _King._ Well, kings must bear sometimes. _Mar._ They must, till they can shake their burden off; And that's, I think, your aim. _King._ Mistaken still: All favours, all preferments, pass through them; I'm pliant, and they mould me as they please. _Mar._ These are your arts, to make them more secure; Just so your brother used the admiral. Brothers may think, and act like brothers too. _King._ What said you, ha! what mean you, Marmoutiere? _Mar._ Nay, what mean you? that start betrayed you, sir. _King._ This is no vigil of St Bartholomew, Nor is Blois Paris. _Mar._ 'Tis an open town. _King._ What then? _Mar._ Where you are strongest. _King._ Well, what then? _Mar._ No more; but you have power, and are provoked. _King._ O, thou hast set thy foot upon a snake! Get quickly off, or it will sting thee dead. _Mar._ Can I unknow it? _King._ No, but keep it secret. _Mar._ Think, sir, your thoughts are still as much your own, As when you kept the key of your own breast; But since you let me in, I find it filled With death and horror: you would murder Guise. _King._ Murder! what, murder! use a softer word, And call it sovereign justice. _Mar._ Would I could! But justice bears the godlike shape of law, And law requires defence, and equal plea Betwixt the offender, and the righteous judge. _King._ Yes, when the offender can be judged by laws: But when his greatness overturns the scales, Then kings are justice in the last appeal, And, forced by strong necessity, may strike; In which, indeed, they assert the public good, And, like sworn surgeons, lop the gangrened limb: Unpleasant, wholesome, work. _Mar._ If this be needful. _King._ Ha! didst not thou thyself, in fathoming The depth of my designs, drop there the plummet? Didst thou not say--Affronts so great, so public, I never could forgive? _Mar._ I did; but yet-- _King._ What means, _but yet?_ 'tis evidence so full, If the last trumpet sounded in my ears, Undaunted I should meet the saints half way, And in the face of heaven maintain the fact. _Mar._ Maintain it then to heaven, but not to me. Do you love me? _King._ Can you doubt it? _Mar._ Yes, I can doubt it, if you can deny; Love begs once more this great offender's life. Can you forgive the man you justly hate, That hazards both your life and crown to spare him? One, whom you may suspect I more than pity,-- For I would have you see, that what I ask, I know, is wondrous difficult to grant,-- Can you be thus extravagantly good? _King._ What then? for I begin to fear my firmness, And doubt the soft destruction of your tongue. _Mar._ Then, in return, I swear to heaven and you, To give you all the preference of my soul; No rebel rival to disturb you there; Let him but live, that he may be my convert! [_King walks awhile, then wipes his eyes, and speaks._ _King._ You've conquered; all that's past shall be forgiven. My lavish love has made a lavish grant; But know, this act of grace shall be my last. Let him repent, yes, let him well repent; Let him desist, and tempt revenge no further: For, by yon heaven, that's conscious of his crimes, I will no more by mercy be betrayed. _Deputies appearing at the Door._ The deputies are entering; you must leave me. Thus, tyrant business all my hours usurps, And makes me live for others. _Mar._ Now heaven reward you with a prosperous reign, And grant, you never may be good in vain! [_Exit._ _Enter Deputies of the Three States: Cardinal of_ GUISE, _and Archbishop of_ LYONS, _at the head of them._ _King._ Well, my good lords, what matters of importance Employed the States this morning? _Arch._ One high point Was warmly canvassed in the Commons House, And will be soon resolved. _King._ What was't? _Card._ Succession. _King._ That's one high point indeed, but not to be So warmly canvassed, or so soon resolved. _Card._ Things necessary must sometimes be sudden. _King._ No sudden danger threatens you, my lord. _Arch._ What may be sudden, must be counted so. We hope and wish your life; but yours and ours Are in the hand of heaven. _King._ My lord, they are; Yet, in a natural way, I may live long, If heaven, and you my loyal subjects, please. _Arch._ But since good princes, like your majesty, Take care of dangers merely possible, Which may concern their subjects, whose they are, And for whom kings are made-- _King._ Yes; we for them, And they for us; the benefits are mutual, And so the ties are too. _Card._ To cut things short, The Commons will decree, to exclude Navarre From the succession of the realm of France. _King._ Decree, my lord! What! one estate decree? Where then are the other two, and what am I? The government is cast up somewhat short, The clergy and nobility cashiered, Five hundred popular figures on a row, And I myself, that am, or should be, king, An o'ergrown cypher set before the sum: What reasons urge our sovereigns for the exclusion? _Arch._ He stands suspected, sir, of heresy. _King._ Has he been called to make his just defence? _Card._ That needs not, for 'tis known. _King._ To whom? _Card._ The Commons. _King._ What is't those gods, the Commons, do not know? But heresy, you churchmen teach us vulgar, Supposes obstinate, and stiff persisting In errors proved, long admonitions made, And all rejected: Has this course been used? _Arch._ We grant it has not; but-- _King._ Nay, give me leave,-- I urge, from your own grant, it has not been. If then, in process of a petty sum, Both parties having not been fully heard, No sentence can be given; Much less in the succession of a crown, Which, after my decease, by right inherent, Devolves upon my brother of Navarre. _Card._ The right of souls is still to be preferred; Religion must not suffer for a claim. _King._ If kings may be excluded, or deposed, Whene'er you cry religion to the crowd; That doctrine makes rebellion orthodox, And subjects must be traitors, to be saved. _Arch._ Then heresy's entailed upon the throne. _King._ You would entail confusion, wars, and slaughters: Those ills are certain; what you name, contingent. I know my brother's nature; 'tis sincere, Above deceit, no crookedness of thought; Says what he means, and what he says performs; Brave, but not rash; successful, but not proud; So much acknowledging, that he's uneasy, Till every petty service be o'erpaid. _Arch._ Some say, revengeful. _King._ Some then libel him; But that's what both of us have learned to bear. He can forgive, but you disdain forgiveness. Your chiefs are they no libel must profane; Honour's a sacred thing in all but kings; But when your rhymes assassinate our fame, You hug your nauseous, blundering ballad-wits, And pay them, as if nonsense were a merit, If it can mean but treason. _Arch._ Sir, we have many arguments to urge-- _King._ And I have more to answer: Let them know, My royal brother of Navarre shall stand Secure by right, by merit, and my love. God, and good men, will never fail his cause, And all the bad shall be constrained by laws. _Arch._ Since gentle means to exclude Navarre are vain, To-morrow, in the States, 'twill be proposed, To make the duke of Guise lieutenant-general; Which power, most graciously confirmed by you, Will stop this headlong torrent of succession, That bears religion, laws, and all before it. In hope you'll not oppose what must be done, We wish you, sir, a long and prosperous reign. [_Exeunt all but the King._ _King._ To-morrow Guise is made lieutenant-general;-- Why, then, to-morrow I no more am king. 'Tis time to push my slackened vengeance home, To be a king, or not to be at all. The vow that manacled my rage is loosed; Even heaven is wearied with repeated crimes, Till lightning flashes round, to guard the throne, And the curbed thunder grumbles to be gone. _Enter_ GRILLON _to him._ _Gril._ 'Tis just the appointed hour you bid me wait. _King._ So just, as if thou wert inspired to come; As if the guardian-angel of my throne, Who had o'erslept himself so many years, Just now was roused, and brought thee to my rescue. _Gril._ I hear the Guise will be lieutenant-general. _King._ And canst thou suffer it? _Gril._ Nay, if you will suffer it, then well may I. If kings will be so civil to their subjects, to give up all things tamely, they first turn rebels to themselves, and that's a fair example for their friends. 'Slife, sir, 'tis a dangerous matter to be loyal on the wrong side, to serve my prince in spite of him; if you'll be a royalist yourself, there are millions of honest men will fight for you; but if you will not, there are few will hang for you. _King._ No more: I am resolved. The course of things can be with-held no longer From breaking forth to their appointed end: My vengeance, ripened in the womb of time, Presses for birth, and longs to be disclosed. Grillon, the Guise is doomed to sudden death: The sword must end him:--has not thine an edge? _Gril._ Yes, and a point too; I'll challenge him. _King._ I bid thee kill him. [_Walking._ _Gril._ So I mean to do. _King._ Without thy hazard. _Gril._ Now I understand you; I should murder him: I am your soldier, sir, but not your hangman. _King._ Dost thou not hate him? _Gril._ Yes. _King._ Hast thou not said, That he deserves it? _Gril._ Yes; but how have I Deserved to do a murder? _King._ 'Tis no murder; 'Tis sovereign justice, urged from self-defence. _Gril._ 'Tis all confest, and yet I dare not do't. _King._ Go; thou art a coward. _Gril._ You are my king. _King._ Thou say'st, thou dar'st not kill him. _Gril._ Were I a coward, I had been a villain, And then I durst have done't. _King._ Thou hast done worse, in thy long course of arms. Hast thou ne'er killed a man? _Gril._ Yes, when a man would have killed me. _King._ Hast thou not plundered from the helpless poor? Snatched from the sweating labourer his food? _Gril._ Sir, I have eaten and drank in my own defence, when I was hungry and thirsty; I have plundered, when you have not paid me; I have been content with a farmer's daughter, when a better whore was not to be had. As for cutting off a traitor, I'll execute him lawfully in my own function, when I meet him in the field; but for your chamber-practice, that's not my talent. _King._ Is my revenge unjust, or tyrannous? Heaven knows I love not blood. _Gril._ No, for your mercy is your only vice. You may dispatch a rebel lawfully, but the mischief is, that rebel has given me my life at the barricadoes, and, till I have returned his bribe, I am not upon even terms with him. _King._ Give me thy hand; I love thee not the worse: Make much of honour, 'tis a soldier's conscience. Thou shalt not do this act; thou art even too good; But keep my secret, for that's conscience too. _Gril._ When I disclose it, think I am a coward. _King._ No more of that, I know thou art not one. Call Lognac hither straight, and St Malin; Bid Larchant find some unsuspected means, To keep guards doubled at the council-door, That none pass in or out, but those I call: The rest I'll think on further; so farewell. _Gril._ Heaven bless your majesty! Though I'll not kill him for you, I'll defend you when he's killed: For the honest part of the job let me alone[19]. [_Exeunt severally._ SCENE II.--SCENE _opens, and discovers Men and Women at a Banquet,_ MALICORN _standing by._ _Mal._ This is the solemn annual feast I keep, As this day twelve year, on this very hour, I signed the contract for my soul with hell. I bartered it for honours, wealth, and pleasure, Three things which mortal men do covet most; And 'faith, I over-sold it to the fiend: What, one-and-twenty years, nine yet to come! How can a soul be worth so much to devils? O how I hug myself, to out-wit these fools of hell! And yet a sudden damp, I know not why, Has seized my spirits, and, like a heavy weight, Hangs on their active springs. I want a song To rouse me; my blood freezes.--Music there. A SONG BETWIXT A SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS. Shepherdess. _Tell me, Thyrsis, tell your anguish, Why you sigh, and why you languish; When the nymph whom you adore, Grants the blessing Of possessing, What can love and I do more?_ Shepherd. _Think it's love beyond all measure, Makes me faint away with pleasure; Strength of cordial may destroy. And the blessing Of possessing, Kills me with excess of joy._ Shepherdess. _Thyrsis, how can I believe you! But confess, and I'll forgive you; Men are false, and so are you, Never nature Framed a creature To enjoy, and yet be true._ Shepherd. _Mine's a flame beyond expiring, Still possessing, still desiring, Fit for love's imperial crown; Ever shining, And refining, Still the more 'tis melted down._ Chorus together. _Mine's a flame beyond expiring. Still possessing, still desiring, Fit for love's imperial crown; Ever shining, And refining, Still the more 'tis melted down._ _After a Song and Dance, loud knocking at the Door,_ _Enter a Servant._ _Mal._ What noise is that? _Serv._ An ill-looked surly man, With a hoarse voice, says he must speak with you. _Mal._ Tell him I dedicate this day to pleasure. I neither have, nor will have, business with him. [_Exit_ SERV. What, louder yet? what saucy slave is this? [_Knock louder._ _Re-enter Servant._ _Serv._ He says you have, and must have, business with him. Come out, or he'll come in, and spoil your mirth. _Mal._ I will not. _Serv._ Sir, I dare not tell him so; [_Knocking again more fiercely._ My hair stands up in bristles when I see him; The dogs run into corners; the spay'd bitch Bays at his back, and howls[20]. _Mal._ Bid him enter, and go off thyself. [_Exit Serv._ SCENE _closes upon the company._ _Enter_ MELANAX, _an hour-glass in his hand, almost empty._ How dar'st thou interrupt my softer hours? By heaven, I'll ram thee in some knotted oak, Where thou shalt sigh, and groan to whistling winds, Upon the lonely plain. Or I'll confine thee deep in the red sea, groveling on the sands, Ten thousand billows rolling o'er thy head. _Mel._ Hoh, hoh, hoh! _Mal._ Laughest thou, malicious fiend? I'll ope my book of bloody characters, Shall rumple up thy tender airy limbs, Like parchment in a flame. _Mel._ Thou can'st not do it. Behold this hour-glass. _Mal._ Well, and what of that? _Mel._ Seest thou these ebbing sands? They run for thee, and when their race is run, Thy lungs, the bellows of thy mortal breath, Shall sink for ever down, and heave no more. _Mal._ What, resty, fiend? Nine years thou hast to serve. _Mel._ Not full nine minutes. _Mal._ Thou liest; look on thy bond, and view the date. _Mel._ Then, wilt thou stand to that without appeal? _Mal.._ I will, so help me heaven! _Mel._ So take thee hell. [_Gives him the bond._ There, fool; behold who lies, the devil, or thou? _Mal._ Ha! one-and-twenty years are shrunk to twelve! Do my eyes dazzle? _Mel._ No, they see too true: They dazzled once, I cast a mist before them, So what was figured twelve, to thy dull sight Appeared full twenty-one. _Mal._ There's equity in heaven for this, a cheat. _Mel._ Fool, thou hast quitted thy appeal to heaven, To stand to this. _Mal._ Then I am lost for ever! _Mel._ Thou art. _Mal._ O why was I not warned before? _Mel._ Yes, to repent; then thou hadst cheated me. _Mal._ Add but a day, but half a day, an hour: For sixty minutes, I'll forgive nine years. _Mel._ No, not a moment's thought beyond my time. Dispatch; 'tis much below me to attend For one poor single fare. _Mal._ So pitiless? But yet I may command thee, and I will: I love the Guise, even with my latest breath, Beyond my soul, and my lost hopes of heaven: I charge thee, by my short-lived power, disclose What fate attends my master. _Mel._ If he goes To council when he next is called, he dies. _Mal._ Who waits? _Enter Servant._ Go, give my lord my last adieu; Say, I shall never see his eyes again; But if he goes, when next he's called, to council, Bid him believe my latest breath, he dies.-- [_Exit Serv._ The sands run yet.--O do not shake the glass!-- [_Devil shakes the glass._ I shall be thine too soon!--Could I repent!-- Heaven's not confined to moments.--Mercy, mercy! _Mel._ I see thy prayers dispersed into the winds, And heaven has past them by. I was an angel once of foremost rank, Stood next the shining throne, and winked but half; So almost gazed I glory in the face, That I could bear it, and stared farther in; 'Twas but a moment's pride, and yet I fell, For ever fell; but man, base earth-born man, Sins past a sum, and might be pardoned more: And yet 'tis just; for we were perfect light, And saw our crimes; man, in his body's mire, Half soul, half clod, sinks blindfold into sin, Betrayed by frauds without, and lusts within. _Mel._ Then I have hope. _Mal._ Not so; I preached on purpose To make thee lose this moment of thy prayer. Thy sand creeps low; despair, despair, despair! _Mal._ Where am I now? upon the brink of life, The gulph before me, devils to push me on, And heaven behind me closing all its doors. A thousand years for every hour I've past, O could I 'scape so cheap! but ever, ever! Still to begin an endless round of woes, To be renewed for pains, and last for hell! Yet can pains last, when bodies cannot last? Can earthy substance endless flames endure? Or, when one body wears and flits away, Do souls thrust forth another crust of clay, To fence and guard their tender forms from fire? I feel my heart-strings rend!--I'm here,--I'm gone! Thus men, too careless of their future state, Dispute, know nothing, and believe too late. [_A flash of lightning, they sink together._ SCENE III.--_Enter Duke of_ GUISE; _Cardinal, and_ AUMALE. _Card._ A dreadful message from a dying man, A prophesy indeed! For souls, just quitting earth, peep into heaven, Make swift acquaintance with their kindred forms, And partners of immortal secrets grow. _Aum._ 'Tis good to lean on the securer side: When life depends, the mighty stake is such, Fools fear too little, and they dare too much. _Enter Arch-Bishop._ _Gui._ You have prevailed, I will not go to council. I have provoked my sovereign past a pardon, It but remains to doubt if he dare kill me: Then if he dares but to be just, I die. 'Tis too much odds against me; I'll depart, And finish greatness at some safer time. _Arch._ By heaven, 'tis Harry's plot to fright you hence, That, coward-like, you might forsake your friends. _Gui._ The devil foretold it dying Malicorn. _Arch._ Yes, some court-devil, no doubt: If you depart, consider, good my lord, You are the master-spring that moves our fabric, Which once removed, our motion is no more. Without your presence, which buoys up our hearts, The League will sink beneath a royal name; The inevitable yoke prepared for kings Will soon be shaken off; things done, repealed; And things undone, past future means to do. _Card._ I know not; I begin to taste his reasons. _Arch._ Nay, were the danger certain of your stay, An act so mean would lose you all your friends, And leave you single to the tyrant's rage: Then better 'tis to hazard life alone, Than life, and friends, and reputation too. _Gui._ Since more I am confirmed, I'll stand the shock. Where'er he dares to call, I dare to go. My friends are many, faithful, and united; He will not venture on so rash a deed: And now, I wonder I should fear that force, Which I have used to conquer and contemn. _Enter_ MARMOUTIERE. _Arch._ Your tempter comes, perhaps, to turn the scale, And warn you not to go. _Gui._ O fear her not, I will be there. [_Exeunt Arch-Bishop and Cardinal._ What can she mean?--repent? Or is it cast betwixt the king and her To sound me? come what will, it warms my heart With secret joy, which these my ominous statesmen Left dead within me;--ha! she turns away. _Mar._ Do you not wonder at this visit, sir? _Gui._ No, madam, I at last have gained the point Of mightiest minds, to wonder now at nothing. _Mar._ Believe me, Guise, 'twere gallantly resolved, If you could carry it on the inside too. Why came that sigh uncalled? For love of me, Partly, perhaps; but more for thirst of glory, Which now again dilates itself in smiles, As if you scorned that I should know your purpose. _Gui._ I change, 'tis true, because I love you still; Love you, O heaven, even in my own despite; I tell you all, even at that very moment, I know you straight betray me to the king. _Mar._ O Guise, I never did; but, sir, I come To tell you, I must never see you more. _Gui._ The king's at Blois, and you have reason for it; Therefore, what am I to expect from pity,-- From yours, I mean,--when you behold me slain? _Mar._ First answer me, and then I'll speak my heart. Have you, O Guise, since your last solemn oath, Stood firm to what you swore? Be plain, my lord, Or run it o'er a while, because again I tell you, I must never see you more. _Gui._ Never!--She's set on by the king to sift me. Why, by that never then, all I have sworn Is true, as that the king designs to end me. _Mar._ Keep your obedience,--by the saints, you live. _Gui._ Then mark; 'tis judged by heads grown white in council, This very day he means to cut me off. _Mar._ By heaven, then you're forsworn; you've broke your vows. _Gui._ By you, the justice of the earth, I have not. _Mar._ By you, dissembler of the world, you have. I know the king. _Gui._ I do believe you, madam. _Mar._ I have tried you both. _Gui._ Not me, the king you mean. _Mar._ Do these o'erboiling answers suit the Guise? But go to council, sir, there shew your truth; If you are innocent, you're safe; but O, If I should chance to see you stretched along, Your love, O Guise, and your ambition gone, That venerable aspect pale with death, I must conclude you merited your end. _Gui._ You must, you will, and smile upon my murder. _Mar._ Therefore, if you are conscious of a breach, Confess it to me. Lead me to the king; He has promised me to conquer his revenge, And place you next him; therefore, if you're right, Make me not fear it by asseverations, But speak your heart, and O resolve me truly! _Gui._ Madam, I've thought, and trust you with my soul. You saw but now my parting with my brother, The prelate too of Lyons; it was debated Warmly against me, that I should go on. _Mar._ Did I not tell you, sir? _Gui._ True; but in spite Of those imperial arguments they urged, I was not to be worked from second thought: There we broke off; and mark me, if I live, You are the saint that makes a convert of me. _Mar._ Go then:--O heaven! Why must I still suspect you? Why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes? Yet if you live, O Guise,--there, there's the cause,-- I never shall converse, nor see you more. _Gui._ O say not so, for once again I'll see you. Were you this very night to lodge with angels, Yet say not never; for I hope by virtue To merit heaven, and wed you late in glory. _Mar._ This night, my lord, I'm a recluse for ever. _Gui._ Ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim; Stay till the sun rises to salute you; Stay till I lead you to that dismal den Of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever. _Mar._ Alas! your suit is vain, for I have vowed it: Nor was there any other way to clear The imputed stains of my suspected honour. _Gui._ Hear me a word!--one sigh, one tear, at parting, And one last look; for, O my earthly saint, I see your face pale as the cherubins' At Adam's fall. _Mar._ O heaven! I now confess, My heart bleeds for thee, Guise. _Gui._ Why, madam, why? _Mar._ Because by this disorder, And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow, I do believe you love me more than glory. _Gui._ Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy, And think not death could make me tremble thus; Be pitiful to those infirmities Which thus unman me; stay till the council's over; If you are pleased to grant an hour or two To my last prayer, I'll thank you as my saint: If you refuse me, madam, I'll not murmur. _Mar._ Alas, my Guise!--O heaven, what did I say? But take it, take it; if it be too kind, Honour may pardon it, since 'tis my last. _Gui._ O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss Your sacred robe.--Is't possible! your hand! [_She gives him her hand._ O that it were my last expiring moment, For I shall never taste the like again. _Mar._ Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius Watch your ambition. _Gui._ I have none but you: Must I ne'er see you more? _Mar._ I have sworn you must not: Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves, [_Weeps._ And makes me loiter when the angels call me. _Gui._ O ye celestial dews! O paradise! O heaven! O joys, ne'er to be tasted more! _Mar._ Nay, take a little more: cold Marmoutiere, The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere Is gone,--a last embrace I must bequeath you. _Gui._ And O let me return it with another! _Mar._ Farewell for ever; ah, Guise, though now we part, In the bright orbs, prepared us by our fates, Our souls shall meet,--farewell!--and Io's sing above, Where no ambition, nor state-crime, the happier spirits prove, But all are blest, and all enjoy an everlasting love. [_Exit_ MARMOUTIERE. GUISE _solus._ _Gui._ Glory, where art thou? fame, revenge, ambition, Where are you fled? there's ice upon my nerves; My salt, my metal, and my spirits gone, Palled as a slave, that's bed-rid with an ague, I wish my flesh were off. [_Blood falls from his nose._ What now! thou bleed'st:-- Three, and no more!--what then? and why, what then? But just three drops! and why not just three drops, As well as four or five, or five and twenty? _Enter a Page._ _Page._ My lord, your brother and the arch-bishop wait you. _Gui._ I come;--down, devil!--ha! must I stumble too? Away, ye dreams! what if it thundered now, Or if a raven crossed me in my way? Or now it comes, because last night I dreamt The council-hall was hung with crimson round, And all the ceiling plaistered o'er with black. No more!--Blue fires, and ye dull rolling lakes, Fathomless caves, ye dungeons of old night, Phantoms, be gone! if I must die, I'll fall True politician, and defy you all. [_Exit._ SCENE II.--_The Court before the Council-hall._ GRILLON, LARCHANT, _Soldiers placed, People crowding_ _Gril._ Are your guards doubled, captain? _Larch._ Sir, they are. _Gril._ When the Guise comes, remember your petition.-- Make way there for his eminence; give back.-- Your eminence comes late. _Enter two Cardinals, Counsellors, the Cardinal of_ GUISE, _Arch-bishop of Lyons, last the_ GUISE. _Gui._ Well, colonel, are we friends? _Gril._ 'Faith, I think not. _Gui._ Give me your hand. _Gril._ No, for that gives a heart. _Gui._ Yet we shall clasp in heaven. _Gril._ By heaven, we shall not, Unless it be with gripes. _Gui._ True Grillon still. _Larch._ My lord. _Gui._ Ha! captain, you are well attended: If I mistake not, sir, your number's doubled. _Larch._ All these have served against the heretics; And therefore beg your grace you would remember Their wounds and lost arrears[21]. _Gui._ It shall be done.-- Again, my heart! there is a weight upon thee, But I will sigh it off.--Captain, farewell. [_Exeunt Cardinal,_ GUISE, _&c._ _Gril._ Shut the hall-door, and bar the castle-gates: March, march there closer yet, captain, to the door. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III.--_The Council-hall._ _Gui._ I do not like myself to-day. _Arch._ A qualm! he dares not. _Card._ That's one man's thought; he dares, and that's another's. _Enter_ GRILLON. _Gui._ O Marmoutiere! ha, never see thee more? Peace, my tumultuous heart! why jolt my spirits In this unequal circling of my blood? I'll stand it while I may. O mighty nature! Why this alarm? why dost thou call me on To fight, yet rob my limbs of all their use? [_Swoons._ _Card._ Ha! he's fallen, chafe him. He comes again. _Gui._ I beg your pardons; vapours, no more. _Gril._ The effect Of last night's lechery with some working whore[22]. _Enter_ REVOL. _Rev._ My lord of Guise, the king would speak with you. _Gui._ O cardinal, O Lyons!--but no more; Yes, one word more: thou hast a privilege [_To the Cardinal._ To speak with a recluse; O therefore tell her, If never thou behold'st me breathe again, Tell her I sighed it last.--O Marmoutiere! [_Exit bowing._ _Card._ You will have all things your own way, my lord. By heaven, I have strange horror on my soul. _Arch._ I say again, that Henry dares not do it. _Card._ Beware, your grace, of minds that bear like him. I know he scorns to stoop to mean revenge; But when some mightier mischief shocks his toure, He shoots at once with thunder on his wings, And makes it air.--but hark, my lord, 'tis doing! _Guise within._] Murderers, villains! _Arch._ I hear your brother's voice; run to the door. CARD. _and_ ARCH. _run to the door._ _Card._ Help, help, the Guise is murdered! _Arch._ Help, help! _Gril._ Cease your vain cries, you are the king's prisoners;-- Take them, Dugast, into your custody. _Card._ We must obey, my lord, for heaven calls us. [_Exeunt._ _The_ SCENE _draws, behind it a Traverse._ _The_ GUISE _is assaulted by eight. They stab him in all parts, but most in the head._ _Gui._ O villains! hell-hounds! hold. [_Half draws his sword, is held._ Murdered, O basely, and not draw my sword!-- Dog, Lognac,--but my own blood choaks me. Down, villain, down!--I'm gone,--O Marmoutiere! [_Flings himself upon him, dies[23]._ _The Traverse is drawn._ _The King rises from his Chair, comes forward with his Cabinet-council._ _King._ Open the closet, and let in the council; Bid Dugast execute the cardinal; Seize all the factious leaders, as I ordered, And every one be answered, on your lives. _Enter Queen-Mother followed by the Counsellors._ O, madam, you are welcome; how goes your health? _Qu. M._ A little mended, sir.--What have you done? _King._ That which has made me king of France; for there The king of Paris at your feet lies dead. _Qu. M._ You have cut out dangerous work, but make it up With speed and resolution[24]. _King._ Yes, I'll wear The fox no longer, but put on the lion; And since I could resolve to take the heads Of this great insurrection, you, the members, Look to it; beware, turn from your stubbornness, And learn to know me, for I will be king. _Gril._ 'Sdeath, how the traitors lower, and quake, and droop, And gather to the wing of his protection, As if they were his friends, and fought his cause! _King._ [_Looking upon_ GUISE.] Be witness, heaven, I gave him treble warning! He's gone--no more.--Disperse, and think upon it. Beware my sword, which, if I once unsheath, By all the reverence due to thrones and crowns, Nought shall atone the vows of speedy justice, Till fate to ruin every traitor brings, That dares the vengeance of indulgent kings. [_Exuent._ Footnotes: 1. The Council of Sixteen certainly offered to place twenty thousand disciplined citizens of Paris at the devotion of the Duke of Guise; and here the intended parallel came close: for Shaftesbury used to boast, that he could raise the like number of brisk boys in the city of London, by merely holding up his finger. 2. During the cabals of the Council of Sixteen, the Duke of Aumale approached Paris with five hundred veteran horse, levied in the disaffected province of Picardy. Jean Conti, one of the sheriffs (_Echevins_) of Paris, was tampered with to admit them by St Martin's gate; but as he refused, the leaguers stigmatised him as a heretic and favourer of Navarre. Another of these officers consented to open to Aumale the gate of St Denis, of which the keys were intrusted to him. The conspirators had determined, as is here expressed, to seize the person of the king, when he should attend the procession of the Flagellants, as he was wont to do in time of Lent. But he was apprised of their purpose by Poltrot, one of their number, and used the pretext of indisposition to excuse his absence from the penitential procession. _Davila_, lib. viii. 3. In the year 1565, an interview took place at Bayonne between Catharine of Medicis, her son Charles IX., and the Queen of Spain, attended by the famous Duke of Alva, and the Count of Benevento. Many political discussions took place; and the opinion of Alva, as expressed in the text, is almost literally versified from Davila's account of the conference. "_Il Duca D'Alva, uomo di veemente natura risolutamente diceva, che per distruggere la novita della fede, e le sollevazioni di stato, bisognava levare le teste de' papaveri, pescare i pesci grossi e non si curare di prendere le ranocchie: erano questi i concetti proferiti da lui; perche cessati i venti, l'onde della plebe facilmente si sarebbono da se stesse composte e acquietate: aggiugneva, che un prencipe non puo far cosa piu vituperosa ne piu dannosa a se stesso, quanto il permettere al popolo il vivere secondo la loro coscienza, ponendo tanta varieta di religioni in uno stato, quanto sono i capricci degli huomini e le fantasie delle persone inquiete, aprendo la porta alla discordia e alla confusione: e dimostrava con lunga commemorazione di segnalati esempj, che la diversita della fede aveva sempre messo l'arme in mano ai sudditi, e sempre sollevate atroci perfidie e funeste rebellioni contra i superiori: onde conchiudeva nel fine, che siccome le controversie della fede avevan sempre servito di pretesto e di argumento alle sollevazioni de' mal contenti, cosi era necessario rimovere a primo tratto questa coperta, e poi con severi rimedj, e senza riguardo di ferro, ne di fuoco, purgare le radici di quel male, il quale colla dolcezza e con la sofferenza perniciosamente germogliando si dilatava sempre, e si accresceva._"--Delle Guerre Civili di Francia, lib. iii. 4. The popular arts of the Duke of Monmouth are here alluded to, which his fine person and courteous manners rendered so eminently, and for himself so unfortunately, successful. The lady, in whose mouth these remonstrances are placed, may be supposed to be the duchess, by whose prayers and tears he was more than once induced to suspend his career. 5. Francis II. of France, a prince of delicate health and mean talents, died of an imposthume in the head. 6. When Poltrot had discovered the intentions of the Council of Sixteen against the king's person, it was warmly debated in the council of Henry, whether the persons of the conspirators ought not to be seized at their next meeting. But, upon considering the numbers of the citizens, and their zeal for the League, together with the small number of the king's guards and adherents, this advice was rejected as too hazardous. It was upon this occasion that Catherine quoted the Tuscan proverb in the text,--"_Bisogna copriersi bene il viso inanzi che struzzicare il vespaio;_" Davila, lib. IX. 7. Margaret of Navarre, sister of Henry II., was suspected of an intrigue with the Duke of Guise. 8. Henry II., when Duke of Anjou, defeated the Huguenots, commanded by the famous Admiral Coligni, with very great loss, taking all his artillery and baggage, with two hundred standards and colours, 1569. 9. Alluding to a celebrated battle fought near Montargis, in 1587, when Guise, with very disproportioned forces, surprised and cut to pieces a large army of German auxiliaries, who had advanced into France to join the king of Navarre, afterwards Henry IV. Upon that occasion, the Duke of Guise kept his resolution to fight a profound secret till the very day of the attack, when, after having dined, and remained thoughtful and silent for a few minutes, he suddenly ordered the trumpets to sound to horse, and, to the astonishment of the Duke of Mayenne, and his other generals, who had never suspected his intention, instantly moved forward against the enemy.--_Davila_, lib. viii. 10. The king of Navarre (Henry IV.), by his manifesto, published in 1585, after discussing sundry points of state with the leaguers, defied the Duke of Guise, their loader, to mortal combat, body to body, or two to two, or ten to ten, or twenty to twenty. To this romantic defiance the Duke returned no direct answer; but his partizans alleged, that as the quarrel betwixt the king of Navarre and their patron did not arise from private enmity, it could not become the subject of single combat. _Davila_ lib. vii.] 11. This alludes to the defacing the Duke of York's picture at Guildhall; an outrage stigmatized in the epilogue to "Venice Preserved," where Otway says, Nothing shall daunt his pen, when truth does call; No, not the picture-mangler at Guildhall. The rebel tribe, of which that vermin's one. Have now set forward, and their course begun; And while that prince's figure they deface, As they before had massacred his name, Durst their base fears but look him in the face, They'd use his person as they've used his fame; A face, in which such lineaments they read Of that great Martyr's, whose rich blood they shed. The picture-mangler is explained by a marginal note to be, "the rascal, that cut the Duke of York's picture." The same circumstance is mentioned in "_Musa Praefica_, or the London Poem, or a humble Oblation on the sacred Tomb of our late gracious Monarch King Charles II., of ever blessed and eternal Memory; by a Loyal Apprentice of the honourable City of London." The writer mentions the Duke of York as --loaded with indignity, Already martyred in effigy. O blast the arm, that dared that impious blow! Let heaven reward him with a vengeance meet, Who God's anointed dared to overthrow! His head had suffered, when they pierced his feet. Explained to allude to the Duke of York's "picture in Guildhall, cut from the legs downward undiscovered." In another tory ballad, we have this stanza in the character of a fanatic: We'll smite the idol in Guildhall, And then, as we are wont, We'll cry it was a Popish plot, And swear these rogues have done't. 12. This speech depends on the gesticulation of the sorcerer: Guise first desires him report the danger to the people,--then bids him halt, and express his judgment more fully. Malicorn makes signs of assassination.--Guise goes on-- --Let him if he dare. But more, more, more;-- i.e. I have a further reason than state policy for my visit.--Malicorn makes repeated signs of ignorance and discontent; and Guise urges him to speak out on a subject, which he himself was unwilling to open. 13. The business of this scene is taken from the following passage. _"Entro il Duca di Guisa in Parigi il Lunedi nono giorno di Maggio, ch' era gia vicino il mezzogiorno, non con maggior comitiva che di sette cavalli tra gentiluomini e servitori: ma come una piccolo palla di neve, che discende dall' erto si va tanto ingrossando, che nel fine diviene quasi una montagna eminente; cosi abandonando il popolo le case e le botteghe, con plauso e con allegrezza, per seguitarlo, non fu a mezzo la citta, che aveva dietro piu di trentamila persone, ed era tanta la calca, che a pena egli medesimo poteva seguitare la sua strada. Andavan le grida del popolo insino al cielo, ne mai fu con tanto plauso gridato, "Vita il Re" con quanto ora si gridava "Vita Guisa." Chi lo sulutava, chi lo ringraziava, chi se gl' inchinava, chi gli baciava le falde de' vestimenti, chi, non potendo accostarsi, con le mani e con i gesti di tutto il corpo dava segui profusi d' allegrezza; e furono veduti di quelli che, adorandolo come santo, lo toccavano con le corone, e le medesime poi o baciavano, o con esse si toccavano gli occhi e la fronte; e sino le donne dalle finestra, spargendo fiori e fronde, onoravano e benedicevano la sua venuta. Egli all' incontro, con viso popolare e con faccia ridente, altri accarezzava con le parole, altri risalutava con i gesti, altri rallegrava con l' occhio, e traversando le caterve del popolo con la testa scoperta, non permetteva cosa alcuna, che fosse a proposito per finire a conciliarsi la benevolenza e l' applauso popolare. In questa maniera, senza fermarsi alla sua casa, ando a dirittura a smontare a Sant' Eustachio al palazzo della Reina Madre, la quale mezza attonita per il suo venire improvviso; perche Monsignor di Bellieure arrivato tre ore innanzi aveva posto in dubbio la sua venuta; lo riceve pallida nel volto, tutta tremante e contra l' ordinario costume della natura sua quasi smarrita. Le dimostrazioni del Duca di Guisa furono piene d' affettuosa umilta e di profonda sommissione: le parole della Reina ambigue, dicendoli; che lo vedeva volentieri, ma che molto piu volontieri l' arebbe veduto in altro tempo; alla quale egli rispose con sembiante modestissimo ma con parole altiere: Ch' egli era buon servitore del Re, e che avendo intese le calunnie date all' innocenza sua, e le cose che si trattavano contra la religione e contra gli uomini dabbene di quel popolo, era venuto, o per divertire il male, e espurgarese stesso, ovvero per lasciar la vita in servizio di Santa Chiesa e della salute universale. La Reina, interrotto il ragionamento, mentre egli salutava, come e solito, le altre Dame della corte, chiamo Luigi Davila suo Gentiluomo d' onore, e gli commise, che facesse intendere al Re, ch' era arrivato il Duca di Guisa, e ch' ella fra poco l' arebbe condotto al Lovero personalmente. Si commosse di maniera il Re, ch' era nel suo gabinetto con Monsignore di Villaclera, con Bellieure e con l' abbate del Bene, che fu costretto appogiarsi col braccio, coprendosi la faccia, al tavolino, e interrogato il Davila d' ogni particolare, gli commando, che dicesse segretamente alla Reina, che framettesse piu tempo che fosse possibile alla venuta. L' Abbate del Bene e il Colonello Alfonso Corso, il quale entro in questo punto nel gabinetto, e era confidentissimo, servitore del Re, e pieno di merito verso la corona, lo consigliavano, che ricevendo il Duca di Guisa nel medesimo gabinetto, lo facese uccidere subito nell' istesso luogo, dicendo l' abbate questo_ Percutiam pastorem, et dispergentur oves_. Ma Villaclera, Bellieure, e il gran Cancelliere che sopravvenne, furono di contrario parere allegando esesr tanta la commozione del popolo, che in caso tale, sprezzando la Maesta regia, e rompendo tutti i vincoli delle leggi, sarebbe corso a precipitosa vendetta, e che non essendo le cose ancora apparecchiate per la difesa propria, e per frenare il furore della citta le forze de' Parigini erano troppo poderose parole per stuzzicarle."_ Lib. ix. 14. For this scene also, which gave great offence to the followers of Monmouth, our author had the authority of Davila in the continuation of the passage already quoted. _"Mentre il Re sta dubbioso nell' animo, sopraggiunse la Reina, che conduceva il Duca di Guisa essendo venuta nella sua seggetta, e il Duca accompagnatala sempre a piedi; ma con tanto seguito e frequenza di gente, che tutta la Citta pareva ridotta nel giro del cortile del Lovero e nelle strade vicine. Traversarono fra la spalliera de' soldati, essendo presente Monsignor di Griglione maestro di campo della guardia, il quale uomo libero e militare, e poco amico del Duca di Guisa, mentre egli s' inchina ad ogni privato soldato, fece pochissimo sembiante di riverirlo, il che da lui fu con qualche pallidezza del volto ben osservato, la quale continuo maggiormente, poiche vide gli Suizzeri far spalliera con l'arme a piedi della scala, e nella sala gli arcieri, e nelle camere i gentiluomini tutti radunati per aspettarlo. Entrarono nella camera del Re, il quale mentre il Duca di Guisa con profonda riverenza se gl' inchino, con viso scorrucciato gli disse; Io v' avevo fatto intendere, che non veniste. A queste parole il Duca con l' istessa sommissione, che aveva fatto alla Reina, ma con parole piu ritenute, rispose. Ch' Egli era venuto a mettersi nelle braccia della giustitia di Sua Maesta, per iscolparsi delle calunnie, che gli erano apposte da' suoi nemici, e che nondimeno non sarebbe venuto, quando gli fosse stato detto chiaramente, che Sua Maesta comandata, che non venisse. Il Re rivolto a Bellieure, alteratamente lo domando s' era vero, che gli avesse data commissione di dire al Duca di Guisa, che non venisse, se non voleva esser tenuto per autore delli scandali, e delle sollevazioni de' Parigini. Monseignor di Bellieure si feceinnanzi, e volle render conto dell' ambasciata sua; ma nel principio del parlare, il Re l' interruppe, dicendogli, che bastava, e rivolto al Duca di Guisa disse; che non sapeva, ch' egii fosse stato calunniato da persona alcuna, ma che la sua innocenza sarebbe apparsa chiara, quando dalla sua venuta non fosse nata alcuna novita, e interrotta la quiete del governo, come si prevedeva. La Reina pratica della natura del Re, conoscendolo dalla faccia inclinato a qualche gagliarda risoluzione, lo tiro da parte, e gli disse in sostanza quel che aveva veduto della concorrenza del popolo, e che non pensasse a deliberazioni precipitose, perche non era tempo. Il medesimo soggiunse la Duchessa d' Uzes, che gli era vicina, e il Duca di Guisa osservando attentamente ogni minuzia, come vide questa fluttazione, per non dar tempo al Re di deliberare, si finse stracco dal viaggio, e licenziandosi brevemente da lui, accompagnato dall' istessa frequenza di popolo, ma da niuno di quelli della corte, si ritiro nella strada di Sant' Antonio alle sue case."_ Lib. ix.] 15. See the speech of Ashtaroth and his companions, on taking leave of Rinaldo, whom they had transported to the field of Roncisvalles: _Noi ce n' andremo or, io e Farfarello, Tra le campane, e soneremo a festa, Quando vedrem, che tu farai macello. In Roncisvalle una certa chiesetta Era in quel tempo, ch' avea due campane, Quivi stetton coloro alla veletta, Per ciuffar di quell' anime pagane, Come sparvier tra ramo e ramo aspetta; E bisogno, che menassin le mane, E che e' batessin tutto il giorno l' ali, A presentarle a' guidici infernali._ Il Morgante Maggiore, Canto XXVI. St. 82, 89. 16. See the speech of Ashtaroth to Rinaldo, in the Morgante Maggiore. _Noi abbiam come voi principe e duce Giu nell' Inferno, e 'l primo e Belzebue, Chi una cosa, e chi altra conduce, Ognuno attende alle faccende sue; Ma tutto a Belzebu, poi si riduce Perche Lucifer relegato fue Ultimo a tutti, e nel centro piu imo, Poi ch' egli intese esser nel Ciel su primo._ Canto XV. St. 207. 17. This striking account of the entry of the guards is literally from DAVILA. "_La mattina del Giovedi duodecimo giorno di maggio, un' ora innanzi giorno, si sentirono i pifferi e i tamburi degli Suizzeri, che battendo l' ordinanza entrarono nella citta per la porta di Sant' Onorato, precedendo il Maresciallo di Birone a cavallo, e conseguentamente sotto i loro capitani entrarono con le corde accese le compagnie de' Francesi."--"All' entrare della milizia, nota a tutta la citta per lo strepito de' tamburi, il popolo pieno di spavento, e gia certo, che la fama divolgata dell' intenzione del re era piu che sicura, comincio a radunarsi, serrando le porte delle case, e chiudendo l'entrate delle botteghe, che conforme all' uso della citta di lavorare innanzi giorno, gia s' erano cominciare ad aprire, e ognuno si messe a preparare l'armi, apettando l'ordine di quello si dovesse operare._" Lib. IX. 18. It was a frequent complaint of the tories at this period, that the commons, in zeal for their own privileges and immunities, were apt sometimes to infringe the personal liberties of the subject. This is set forth with some humour in a political pamphlet of the day, called, "A Dialogue betwixt Sam, the ferryman of Datchet, Will, a waterman of London, and Tom, a bargeman of Oxford;" upon the king's calling a parliament to meet at Oxford, London, 1681. "As to their own members, they turned them out, and took others in at their will and pleasure; and if they made any fault, they expelled them; and wherever any stood in competition for any town, him they knew would give his vote along with them was admitted, right or wrong. And then they terrified all the sheriffs, mayors, and bailiffs in the kingdom, besides abundance of gentlemen and other honest countrymen. For, on the least complaint of any man's misdemeanour, or information from any member, immediately a serjeant at arms was sent for them, and so much a mile and hour paid, and down on their marrowbones to their worships, and a sound scolding from Mr Speaker, or else to the Tower or Gatehouse they went. The king, God bless him, never took a quarter of that state on him they did ... It was brought to that pass, that two footboys, boxing one day in the Palace-yard, he that was beaten proved to belong to a member, and told the other boy, if he knew his master, he would cause him to be sent for in custody, for keeping such a rogue as he was, that had committed a breach of privilege in beating a member's servant. The boy replied, if it would do him any kindness, he would beat him again, and tell him his master's name into the bargain; and would lay him a crown, that, though his master should bid the Speaker, and all the House of Commons, kiss, &c. they durst not send a serjeant at arms for him. The beaten boy, much nettled at his speech, laid down his money, as the other did: now, said the boy, my master is the king of France, and I am come over with some of his servants to fetch horses out of England; go, bid thy master and the House of Commons send a serjeant at arms to fetch him over.--_Sam._ Before my heart it was a good answer; I hope he won his monies?--_Will._ So he did; but it was put into a waterman's hands, and when it was demanded, says the beaten boy, Sirrah, give it him, if you dare; if his master be the king of France, I'll make you answer it before the House of Commons. The waterman durst do no other, but gave either their own monies. There's no contending with parliament men, or parliament men's men, nor boys." Some occasion was given for these reproaches by the summary and arbitrary commitment of many individuals, who had addressed the king in terms expressing their abhorrence of the vehement petitions presented by the other party for the sitting of parliament, and were thence distinguished by the name of Abhorrers. This course was ended by the sturdy resistance of one Stowell, who had, as foreman of the grand jury at Exeter, presented an _abhorring_ address to the king. A serjeant at arms having been sent to apprehend him, he refused to submit, and bid the officer take his course, adding, he knew no law which made him accountable for what he did as a grand juryman. The House were so much embarrassed by his obstinacy, that they hushed up the matter by voting that he was indisposed, and adjourning the debate _sine dic._ 19. This famous interview betwixt Grillon and the king deserved to have been brought on the stage, in a nobler strain, and free from the buffoonery, by which the veteran's character is degraded. It is thus told by Davila: _"Trattandosi delle persone, che avessero da eseguire il fatto, il Re elesse di fidarsene nel Maestro di campo della sua guardia Griglione, uomo feroce e ardito e per molte cagioni nemico del Duca di Guisa. Fattolo percio venire, gli espose con accomodate parole il suo pensiero, e gli significo aver disegnato, che egli fosse quello, che eseguisse l' impresa, nella quale consisteva tutta la sua salute. Griglione rispose con brevi e significanti parole: Sire, Io sono ben servitore a Vostra Maesta di somma fedelta e divozione, ma faccio professione di soldato, e di cavuliero; s' ella vuoles ch' io vada a sfidare il Duca di Guisa, e che mi ammazzi a corpo a corpo con lui, son pronto a farlo in questo istesso punto; ma ch' io serva di manigoldo, mentre la giustizia sua determina di farlo morire, questo non si conviene a par mio, ne sono per farlo giammai. Il Re non si stupi molto della liberta di Griglione, noto a lui e a tutta la corte per uomo schietto, e che libramente diceva i suoi sensi senza timore alcuno, e pero replico; che gli bastava, che tenesse segreta questo pensiero, perche non l' aveva communicato ad alcun altro, e divulgandosi egli sarebbe stato colpevole d' averlo palesato. A questo rispose Griglione: Essere servitore di fede, d' onore, ne dover mai ridire i segreti interessi del padrone, e partito lascio il Re grandemente dubbioso di quello dovesse operare."_ Lib. ix. 20. A similar assemblage of terrific circumstances announces the arrival of a fiend upon a similar errand, in the old play, entitled, the "Merry Devil of Edmonton." What means the trolling of this fatal chime? O what a trembling horror strikes my heart! My stiffened hair stands upright on my head, As do the bristles of a porcupine. * * * * * Coreb, is't thou? I know thee well; I hear the watchful dogs, With hollow howling, tell of thy approach. The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence, And this distempered and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some devil! Dryden certainly appears to have had the old play in his memory though he has far excelled it. 21. On the evening previous to the assassination, the Seigneur de Larchant accosted the duke as he passed from his own lodging to the king's, accompanied by a body of soldiers, who, he pretended, were petitioners for the duke's interest, to obtain payment of their arrears, and would attend at the door of the council next day, to remind him of their case. This pretext was to account for the unusual number of guards, which might otherwise have excited G uise's suspicion. 22. _Intanto il Duca entrato nel consiglio, e pustosi in una sedia vicina al fuoco si senti un poco di svenimento, o che allora, gli sovcenisse il pericolo, net quale si ritrovava, separato e diviso da tutti i suoi, o che natura, come bene spesso avviene, presaga del mal futuro da se medesima allora si risentizze, o come dissero i suoi malevoli, per essere stato la medesima notte con Madama di Marmoutiere amata grandemente da lui, e essersi soverchiamente debilitato._ Davila, Lib. ix.] 23. The murder of Guise was perpetrated in the Anti-chamber, before the door of the king's cabinet. Lognac, a gentleman of the king's chamber, and a creature of the late duke de Joyeuse, commanded the assassins, who were eight in number. The duke never was able to unsheath his sword, being slain with many wounds as he grappled with Lognac. The king himself was in the cabinet, and listened to the murderous scuffle, till the noise of Guise's fall announced its termination. The cardinal of Guise, and the archbishop of Lyons were also within hearing, and were arrested, while they were endeavouring to call their attendants to Guise's assistance. The cardinal was next day murdered by Da Gast, to whose custody he had been commuted.] 24. Literally from Davila: _"Ora comparse il Re, le dimanda egli primo, come ella stava; al quale avendo risposto che si sentisse meglio, egli ripiglio: Ancor io mi trovo ora molto meglio, perche questa mattina son fatto Re di Francia avendo fatto morire il Re di Parigi. Alle quali parole, replico la Reina: Voi avete fatto morire il Duca di Guisa, ma Dio voglia che non siate ora fatto Re da niente; avete tagliato bene, non so, se cucirete cosi bene. Avete voi preveduti i mali, che sono per succedere? Provvedetevi diligentemente. Due cose sono necessarie, prestezza e risoluzione."_ Lib. ix.] EPILOGUE. WRITTEN BY MR DRYDEN[1]. SPOKEN BY MRS COOK. Much time and trouble this poor play has cost; And, 'faith, I doubted once the cause was lost. Yet no one man was meant, nor great, nor small; Our poets, like frank gamesters, threw at all. They took no single aim:-- But, like bold boys, true to their prince, and hearty, Huzza'd, and fired broadsides at the whole party. Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right, In battle every man is bound to fight. For what should hinder me to sell my skin, } Dear as I could, if once my hand were in? } _Se defendendo_ never was a sin. } 'Tis a fine world, my masters! right or wrong, The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue. They must do all they can, But we, forsooth, must bear a christian mind; And fight, like boys, with one hand tied behind; Nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wond'rous wise, To cry,--box fair, and give him time to rise. When fortune favours, none but fools will dally; } Would any of you sparks, if Nan, or Mally, } Tip you the inviting wink, stand, shall I, shall I? } A Trimmer cried, (that heard me tell this story) Fie, mistress Cook, 'faith you're too rank a Tory! Wish not Whigs hanged, but pity their hard cases; You women love to see men make wry faces.-- Pray, sir, said I, don't think me such a Jew; I say no more, but give the devil his due.-- Lenitives, says he, suit best with our condition.-- Jack Ketch, says I, is an excellent physician.-- I love no blood.--Nor I, sir, as I breathe; But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.-- We Trimmers are for holding all things even.-- Yes; just like him that hung 'twixt hell and heaven.-- Have we not had men's lives enough already?-- Yes, sure: but you're for holding all things steady. Now since the weight hangs all on one side, brother, You Trimmers should, to poize it, hang on t'other. Damned neuters, in their middle way of steering, Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red-herring: Not Whigs, nor Tories they; nor this, nor that; Not birds, nor beasts; but just a kind of bat: A twilight animal, true to neither cause, With Tory wings, but Whigish teeth and claws[2]. Footnotes: 1. There is in Mr Bindley's collection another Epilogue, which appears to have been originally subjoined to the "Duke of Guise." It is extremely coarse; and as the author himself suppressed it, the editor will not do his better judgment the injustice to revive it. 2. The Trimmers, a body small and unpopular, as must always be the case with those, who in violent times declare for moderate and temporising measures, were headed by the ingenious and politic Halifax. He had much of the confidence, at least of the countenance of Charles, who was divided betwixt tenderness for Monmouth, and love of ease, on the one hand, and, on the other, desire of arbitrary power, and something like fear of the duke of York. Halifax repeatedly prevented each of these parties from subjugating the other, and his ambidexter services seem to have been rewarded by the sincere hatred of both. In 1688 was published a vindication of this party, entitled, "the Character of a Trimmer;" and his opinion of,--I. The laws of government. II. Protestant Religion. III. Foreign affairs. By the Hon. Sir William Coventry. THE VINDICATION: OR, THE PARALLEL OF THE FRENCH HOLY LEAGUE, AND THE ENGLISH LEAGUE AND COVENANT, TURNED INTO A SEDITIOUS LIBEL AGAINST THE KING AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, BY THOMAS HUNT, AND THE AUTHORS OF THE REFLECTIONS UPON THE PRETENDED PARALLEL IN THE PLAY CALLED THE DUKE OF GUISE. _Turno tempus erit magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta: et cum spolia ista, diemque Oderit.--_ VINDICATION OF THE DUKE OF GUISE. It was easy to foresee, that a play, which professed to be a _broadside_ discharged at the whole popular party, would not long remain uncensured. The satire being derived from a historical parallel of some delicacy, offered certain facilities of attack to the critics. It was only stretching the resemblance beyond the bounds to which Dryden had limited it, and the comparison became odious, if not dangerous. The whig writers did not neglect this obvious mode of attack, now rendered more popular by the encroachment lately attempted by the court upon the freedom of the city, whose magistrates had been exposed to ridicule in the play. Our readers cannot but remember, that, in order to break the spirit of the city of London, a writ of _quo warranto_ was issued against the incorporation, by which was instituted a vexatious and captious inquiry into the validity of the charter of London. The purpose of this process was to compel the city to resign their freedom and immunities into the king's hands, and to receive a new grant of them, so limited, as might be consistent with the views of the crown, or otherwise to declare them forfeited. One Thomas Hunt, a lawyer of some eminence, who had been solicitor for the Viscount Stafford when that unfortunate nobleman was tried for high treason, and had written upon the side of the tories, but had now altered his principles, stepped forward upon this occasion as the champion of the immunities of the city of London[1]. The ludicrous light in which the sheriffs are placed, during the scene with Grillon in the third act, gave great offence to this active partizan; and he gives vent to his displeasure in the following attack upon the author, and the performance. "They have already condemned the charter and city, and have executed the magistrates in effigy upon the stage, in a play called "The Duke of Guise," frequently acted and applauded; intended most certainly, to provoke the rabble into tumults and disorder. The Roman priest had no success, (God be thanked,) when he animated the people not to suffer the same sheriffs to be carried through the city to the Tower, prisoners. Now the poet hath undertaken, for their being kicked three or four times a-week about the stage to the gallows, infamously rogued and rascalled, to try what he can do towards making the charter forfeitable, by some extravagancy and disorder of the people, which the authority of the best governed cities have not been able to prevent, sometimes under far less provocations. "But this ought not to move the citizens, when he hath so maliciously and mischievously represented the king, and the king's son, nay, and his favourite the duke too, to whom he gives the worst strokes of his unlucky fancy. "He puts the king under the person of Henry III. of France, who appeared in the head of the _Parisian_ massacre; the king's son under the person of the Duke of Guise, who concerted it with the Queen-mother of France, and was slain in that very place, by the righteous judgment of God, where he and his mother had first contrived it. "The Duke of Guise ought to have represented a great prince, that had inserved to some most detestable villany, to please the rage, or lust, of a tyrant. "Such great courtiers have been often sacrificed, to appease the furies of the tyrant's guilty conscience, to expiate for his sin, and to atone the people. "Besides, that a tyrant naturally stands in fear of ministers of mighty wickedness; he is always obnoxious to them, he is a slave to them, as long as they live they remember him of his guilt, and awe him. These wicked slaves become most imperious masters: they drag him to greater evils for their own impunity, than they first perpetrated for his pleasure, and their own ambition. "But such are best given up to public justice, but by no means to be assassinated. Until this age, never before was an assassination invited, commended, and encouraged upon a public theatre. "It is no wonder that _Trimmers_ (so they call men of some moderation of that party) displease them; for they seem to have designs for which it behoves them to know their men; they must be perfectly wicked, or perfectly deceived; of the Catiline make; bold, and without understanding; that can adhere to men that publicly profess murders, and applaud the design. "Caius Caesar (to give unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's) was in the Catiline conspiracy; and then the word was, _he that is not for us is against us;_ for the instruments of wickedness must be men that are resolute and forward, and without consideration; or they will deceive the design, and relent when they enterprize. "But when he was made dictator, and had some pretences, and a probability by means less wicked and mischievous to arrive at the government, his words were, _he that is not against us is with us._ But to Pompey only it belonged, and to his cause, or the like cause, to the defenders of ancient established governments, of the English monarchy and liberties, to say, they that are not with us are against us. _In internecino bello,_ in attacks upon government, _medii pro hostibus habentur,_ neutral men are traitors, and assist, by their indifferency, to the destruction of the government. As many as applaud this play, ought to be put under sureties of the peace; and yet not one warrant, that we hear of yet, granted by the Lord Chief Justice. "But it is not a Duke of Guise to be assassinated, a turbulent, wicked, and haughty courtier; but an innocent and gentle prince, as well as brave, and renowned for noble achievements: a prince, that hath no fault, but that he is the king's son; and the best too of all his sons; such a son, as would have made the best of emperors happy. "Except it be, that the people honour him and love him, and every where publicly and loudly show it: But this they do, for that the best people of England have no other way left to show their loyalty to the king, and love to their religion and government, in long intervals of Parliament, than by prosecuting his son, for the sake of the king and his own merit, with all the demonstrations of the highest esteem. "But he hath not used his patron Duke much better; for he hath put him under a most dismal and unfortunate character of a successor, excluded from the crown by act of state for his religion, who fought his way to the crown, changed his religion, and died by the hand of a Roman assassinate. "It is enough to make his great duke's courage quail, to find himself under such an unlucky and disastrous representation, and thus personated; besides, he hath offered a justification of an act of exclusion against a popish successor, in a Protestant kingdom, by remembering what was done against the king of Navarre. "The Popish religion, in France, did, _de facto,_ by act of state, exclude a Protestant prince, who is under no obligation, from his religion, to destroy his Popish subjects. "Though a Popish prince is, to destroy his Protestant subjects. "A Popish prince, to a Protestant kingdom, without more, must be the most insufferable tyrant, and exceed the character that any story can furnish for that sort of monster: And yet all the while to himself a religious and an applauded prince; discharged from the tortures that ordinarily tear and rend the hearts of the most cruel princes, and make them as uneasy to themselves as they are to their subjects, and sometimes prevail so far as to lay some restraints upon their wicked minds. "But this his patron will impute to his want of judgment; for this poet's heroes are commonly such monsters as Theseus and Hercules are, renowned throughout all ages for destroying. "But to excuse him, this man hath forsaken his post, and entered upon another province. To "The Observator"[2] it belongs to confound truth and falsehood; and, by his false colours and impostures, to put out the eyes of the people, and leave them without understanding. "But our poet hath not so much art left him as to frame any thing agreeable, or _verisimilar_, to amuse the people, or wherewith to deceive them. "His province is to corrupt the manners of the nation, and lay waste their morals; his understanding is clapt, and his brains are vitiated, and he is to rot the age. "His endeavours are more happily applied, to extinguish the little remains of the virtue of the age by bold impieties, and befooling religion by impious and inept rhymes, to confound virtue and vice, good and evil, and leave us without consciences. "And thus we are prepared for destruction. "But to give the world a taste of his atheism and impiety, I shall recite two of his verses, as recited upon the stage, viz. For conscience, and heaven's fear, religious rules, They are all state-bells to toll in pious fools; which I have done the rather, that some honest judge, or justice, may direct a process against this bold impious man; or some honest surrogate, or official, may find leisure to proceed, _ex officio,_ against him, notwithstanding at present they are so encumbered with the dissenters. "Such public blasphemies against religion, never were unpunished in any country, or age, but this. "But I have made too long a digression, but that it carries with it some instructions towards the preserving of the honour of your august city, viz. "That you do not hereafter authorise the stage to expose and revile your great officers, and offices, by the indignities yourselves do them; whilst the Papists clap their hands, and triumph at your public disgraces, and in the hopes they conceive thereby of the ruin of your government, as if that were as sure and certain to them, as it is to us, without doubt, that they once fired it. "And further, for that it was fit to set forth to the world, of what spirit our enemies are, how they intend to attack us; as also, how bold they are with his majesty, what false and dishonourable representations they make of him, and present to the world upon a public theatre; which, I must confess, hath moved me with some passion." This angry barrister was not the only adversary whom Dryden had to encounter on this occasion. Thomas Shadwell, a man of some talents for comedy, and who professed to tread in the footsteps of Ben Jonson, had for some time been at variance with Dryden and Otway. He was probably the author of a poem, entitled, "A Lenten Prologue, refused by the Players;" which is marked by Mr Luttrel, 11th April, 1683, and contains the following direct attack on "The Duke of Guise," and the author: Our prologue wit grows flat; the nap's worn off, And howsoe'er we turn and trim the stuff, The gloss is gone that looked at first so gaudy; 'Tis now no jest to hear young girls talk bawdry. But plots and parties give new matters birth, And state distractions serve you here for mirth. At England's cost poets now purchase fame; While factious heats destroy us, without shame, These wanton Neroes fiddle to the flame; The stage, like old rump-pulpits, is become The scene of news, a furious party's drum: Here poets beat their brains for volunteers, And take fast hold of asses by their ears; Their jingling rhimes for reason here you swallow, Like Orpheus' music, it makes beasts to follow. What an enlightening grace is want of bread! How it can change a libeller's heart, and clear a laureat's head; Open his eyes, till the mad prophet see _Plots working in a future power to be!_ (Medal, p. 14.) Traitors unformed to his second sight are clear. And squadrons here and squadrons there appear; Rebellion is the burden of the seer. To Bayes, in vision, were of late revealed, _Whig armies, that at Knightsbridge lay concealed;_ And though no mortal eye could see't before, _The battle just was entering at the door._ A dangerous association, signed by none, The joiner's plot to seize the king alone. Stephen with College[3] made this dire compact; The watchful Irish took them in the fact. Of riding armed; O traitorous overt act! With each of them an ancient Pistol sided, Against the statute in that case provided. But, why was such a host of swearers pressed? Their succour was ill husbandry at best. Bayes's crowned muse, by sovereign right of satire, Without desert, can dub a man a traitor; And tories, without troubling law or reason, By loyal instinct can find plots and treason. A more formal attack was made in a pamphlet, entitled, "Some Reflections on the pretended parallel in the Play called the Duke of Guise." This Dryden, in the following Vindication, supposes to have been sketched by Shadwell, and finished by a gentleman of the Temple[4]. In these Reflections, the obvious ground of attack, occupied by Hunt, is again resumed. The general indecency of a theatrical exhibition, which alluded to state-transactions of a grave and most important nature; the indecorum of comparing the king to such a monarch as Henry III., infamous for treachery, cruelty, and vices of the most profligate nature; above all, the parallel betwixt the Dukes of Monmouth and Guise, by which the former is exhibited as a traitor to his father, and recommended as no improper object for assassination--are topics insisted on at some length, and with great vehemence. Our author was not insensible to these attacks, by which his loyalty to the king, and the decency of his conduct towards Monmouth, the king's offending, but still beloved, son, and once Dryden's own patron, stood painfully compromised. Accordingly, shortly after these pamphlets had appeared, the following advertisement was annexed to "The Duke of Guise:" "There was a preface intended to this play in vindication of it, against two scurrilous libels lately printed; but it was judged, that a defence of this nature would require more room than a preface reasonably could allow. For this cause, and for the importunities of the stationers, who hastened their impression, it is deferred for some little time, and will be printed by itself. Most men are already of opinion, that neither of the pamphlets deserve an answer, because they are stuffed with open falsities, and sometimes contradict each other; but, for once, they shall have a day or two thrown away upon them, though I break an old custom for their sakes, which was,--to scorn them." The resolution, thus announced, did not give universal satisfaction to our author's friends; one of whom published the following remonstrance, which contains some good sense, in very indifferent poetry: _An Epode to his worthy Friend_ JOHN DRYDEN, _to advise him not to answer two malicious Pamphlets against his Tragedy called_ "The Duke of Guise." (_Marked by Luttrel, 10 March, 1683/4._) Can angry frowns rest on thy noble brow For trivial things; Or, can a stream of muddy water flow From the Muses' springs; Or great Apollo bend his vengeful bow 'Gainst popular stings? Desist thy passion then; do not engage Thyself against the wittols of the age. Should we by stiff Tom Thimble's faction fall, Lord, with what noise The Coffee throats would bellow, and the Ball O' the Change rejoice, And with the company of Pinner's Hall Lift up their voice! Once the head's gone, the good cause is secure; The members cannot long resist our power. Crop not their humours; let the wits proceed Till they have thrown Their venom up; and made themselves indeed Rare fops o'ergrown: Let them on nasty garbage prey and feed, Till all is done; And, by thy great resentment, think it fit To crush their hopes, as humble as their wit. Consider the occasion, and you'll find Yourself severe, And unto rashness much more here inclined, By far, than they're: Consider them as in their proper kind, 'Tween rage and fear, And then the reason will appear most plain,-- A worm that's trod on will turn back again. What if they censure without brain or sense, 'Tis now the fashion; Each giddy fop endeavours to commence A reformation. Pardon them for their native ignorance, And brainsick passion; For, after all, true men of sense will say,-- Their works can never parallel thy play. 'Twere fond to pamper spleen, 'cause owls detest The light of day; Or real nonsense, which endures no test, Condemns thy play. Lodge not such petty trifles in thy breast, But bar their sway; And let them know, that thy heroic bays Can scorn their censure, as it doth their praise. Think not thy answer will their nice reclaim, Whose heads are proof Against all reason, and in spite of shame Will stand aloof; 'Twould cherish further libels on thy fame, Should these thee move. Stand firm, my Dryden, maugre all their plots, Thy bays shall flourish when their ivy rots. But if you are resolved to break your use, And basely sin, In answer; I'll be sworn some haggard muse Has you in her gin; Or in a fit you venture to abuse Your Polyhymn', You may serve him so far: But if you do, All your true friends, sir, will reflect on you. The remonstrance of this friendly poet was unavailing; Dryden having soon after published the following Vindication. Footnotes: 1. "A Defence of the Charter and Municipal Rights of the City of London, and the Rights of other Municipal Cities and Towns of England. Directed to the Citizens of London, by Thomas Hunt. _Si populus vult decipi, decipiatur._ London, printed, and to be sold, by Richard Baldwin." 4to, pages 46. Wood informs us, that Thomas Hunt, the author, was educated at Queen's College, Cambridge, and was esteemed a person of quick parts, and of a ready fluency in discourse, but withal too pert and forward. He was called to the bar, and esteemed a good lawyer. In 1659 he became clerk of the assizes at Oxford circuit, but was ejected from the office at the Restoration, to his great loss, to make room for the true owner. He wrote, "An Argument for the Bishops' right of judging in capital Cases in Parliament, &c.;" for which he expected (says Anthony) no less than to be made lord chief baron of the exchequer in Ireland. But falling short of that honourable office, which he too ambitiously catched at, and considering the loss of another place, which he unjustly possessed, he soon after appeared one of the worst and most inveterate enemies to church and state that was in his time, and the most malicious, and withal the most ignorant, scribbler of the whole herd; and was thereupon stiled, by a noted author, (Dryden, in the following Vindication,) _Magni nominis umbra_. Hunt also published, "Great and weighty Considerations on the Duke of York, &c." in favour of the exclusion. He had also the boldness to republish his high church tract in favour of the bishops' jurisdiction, with a whig postscript tending to destroy his own arguments.--_Ath. Ox._ II, p. 728. 2. A tory paper, then conducted with great zeal, and some controversial talent, by Sir Roger L'Estrange. 3. Alluding to the fate of Stephen College, the Protestant joiner; a meddling, pragmatical fellow, who put himself so far forward in the disputes at Oxford, as to draw down the vengeance of the court. He was very harshly treated during his trial; and though in the toils, and deprived of all assistance, defended himself with right English manliness. He was charged with the ballad on page 6. and with coming to Oxford armed to attack the guards. He said he did not deny he had pistols in his holsters at Oxford; to which Jefferies answered, indecently, but not unaptly, he "thought a chissel might have been more proper for a joiner." Poor College was executed; a vengeance unworthy of the king, who might have apostrophised him as Hamlet does Polonius: Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell; I took thee for thy betters--take thy fortune. Thou findst, to be too busy is some danger. 4. Anthony Wood is followed by Mr Malone in supposing, that Hunt himself is the Templar alluded to. But Dryden seems obviously to talk of the author of the Defence, and the two Reflectors, as three separate persons. He calls them, "the sputtering triumvirate, Mr Hunt, and the two Reflectors;" and again, "What says my lord chief baron (i.e. Hunt) to the business? What says the livery-man Templar? What says Og, the king of Basan (i.e. Shadwell) to it?" The Templar may be discovered, when we learn, who hired a livery-gown to give a vote among the electors. THE VINDICATION OF THE DUKE OF GUISE. In the year of his majesty's happy Restoration, the first play I undertook was the "Duke of Guise;" as the fairest way, which the Act of Indemnity had then left us, of setting forth the rise of the late rebellion; and by exploding the villainies of it upon the stage, to precaution posterity against the like errors. As this was my first essay, so it met with the fortune of an unfinished piece; that is to say, it was damned in private, by the advice of some friends to whom I shewed it; who freely told me, that it was an excellent subject; but not so artificially wrought, as they could have wished; and now let my enemies make their best of this confession. The scene of the Duke of Guise's return to Paris, against the king's positive command, was then written. I have the copy of it still by me, almost the same which it now remains, being taken verbatim out of Davila; for where the action is remarkable, and the very words related, the poet is not at liberty to change them much; and if he will be adding any thing for ornament, it ought to be wholly of a piece. This do I take for a sufficient justification of that scene, unless they will make the pretended parallel to be a prophecy, as well as a parallel of accidents, that were twenty years after to come.[1] Neither do I find, that they can suggest the least colour for it in any other part of the tragedy. But now comes the main objection,--why was it stopt then? To which I shall render this just account, with all due respects to those who were the occasion of it. Upon a wandering rumour (which I will divide betwixt malice and mistake) that some great persons were represented, or personated in it, the matter was complained of to my Lord Chamberlain; who, thereupon, appointed the play to be brought to him, and prohibited the acting of it until further order; commanding me, after this, to wait upon his lordship; which I did, and humbly desired him to compare the play with the history, from whence the subject was taken, referring to the first scene of the fourth act, whereupon the exception was grounded, and leaving Davila (the original) with his lordship. This was before midsummer; and about two months after, I received the play back again from his lordship, but without any positive order whether it should be acted or not; neither was Mr Lee, or myself, any way solicitous about it. But this indeed I ever said, that it was intended for the king's service; and his majesty was the best judge, whether it answered that end or no; and that I reckoned it my duty to submit, if his majesty, for any reason whatsoever, should deem it unfit for the stage. In the interim, a strict scrutiny was made, and no parallel of the great person designed, could be made out. But this push failing, there were immediately started some terrible insinuations, that the person of his majesty was represented under that of Henry the Third; which if they could have found out, would have concluded, perchance, not only in the stopping of the play, but in the hanging up of the poets. But so it was, that his majesty's wisdom and justice acquitted both the one, and the other; and when the play itself was almost forgotten, there were orders given for the acting of it. This is matter of fact; and I have the honour of so great witnesses to the truth of what I have delivered, that it will need no other appeal. As to the exposing of any person living, our innocency is so clear, that it is almost unnecessary to say, it was not in my thought; and, as far as any one man can vouch for another, I do believe it was as little in Mr Lee's. And now since some people have been so busy as to cast out false and scandalous surmises, how far we two agreed upon the writing of it, I must do a common right both to Mr Lee and myself, to declare publicly, that it was at his earnest desire, without any solicitation of mine, that this play was produced betwixt us. After the writing of OEdipus, I passed a promise to join with him in another; and he happened to claim the performance of that promise, just upon the finishing of a poem,[2] when I would have been glad of a little respite before the undertaking of a second task. The person, that passed betwixt us, knows this to be true; and Mr Lee himself, I am sure, will not disown it; So that I did not "seduce him to join with me," as the malicious authors of the Reflections are pleased to call it; but Mr Lee's loyalty is above so ridiculous a slander. I know very well, that the town did ignorantly call and take this to be my play; but I shall not arrogate to myself the merits of my friend. Two-thirds of it belonged to him; and to me only the first scene of the play; the whole fourth act, and the first half, or somewhat more, of the fifth. The pamphleteers, I know, do very boldly insinuate, that, "before the acting of it, I took the whole play to myself; but finding afterwards how ill success it had upon the stage, I threw as much of it as possibly I could upon my fellow." Now here are three damned lies crowded together into a very little room; first, that I assumed any part of it to myself, which I had not written; wherein I appeal, not only to my particular acquaintance, but to the whole company of actors, who will witness for me, that, in all the rehearsals, I never pretended to any one scene of Mr Lee's, but did him all imaginable right, in his title to the greater part of it. I hope I may, without vanity, affirm to the world, that I never stood in need of borrowing another man's reputation; and I have been as little guilty of the injustice, of laying claim to any thing which was not my own. Nay, I durst almost refer myself to some of the angry poets on the other side, whether I have not rather countenanced and assisted their beginnings, than hindered them from rising.[3] The two other falsities are, the "ill success of the play," and "my disowning it." The former is manifestly without foundation; for it succeeded beyond my very hopes, having been frequently acted, and never without a considerable audience; and then it is a thousand to one, that, having no ground to disown it, I did not disown it; but the universe to a nutshell that I did not disown it for want of success, when it succeeded so much beyond my expectation. But my malignant adversaries are the more excusable for this coarse method of breaking in upon truth and good manners, because it is the only way they have to gratify the genius and the interest of the faction together; and never so much pains taken neither, to so very, very little purpose. They decry the play, but in such a manner, that it has the effect of a recommendation. They call it "a dull entertainment;" and that is a dangerous word, I must confess, from one of the greatest masters in human nature, of that faculty. Now I can forgive them this reproach too, after all the rest; for this play does openly discover the original and root of the practices and principles, both of their party and cause; and they are so well acquainted with all the trains and mazes of rebellion, that there is nothing new to them in the whole history. Or what if it were a little insipid, there was no conjuring that I remember in "Pope Joan;" and the "Lancashire Witches" were without doubt the most insipid jades that ever flew upon a stage; and even these, by the favour of a party, made a shift to hold up their heads.[4] Now, if we have out-done these plays in their own dull way, their authors have some sort of privilege to throw the first stone; but we shall rather chuse to yield the point of dulness, than contend for it, against so indisputable a claim. But "matters of state (it seems) are canvassed on the stage, and things of the gravest concernment there managed;" and who were the aggressors, I beseech you, but a few factious, popular hirelings, that by tampering the theatres, and by poisoning the people, made a play-house more seditious than a conventicle; so that the loyal party crave only the same freedom of defending the government, which the other took beforehand of exposing and defaming it. There was no complaint of any disorders of the stage, in the bustle that was made (even to the forming of a party) to uphold a farce of theirs.[5] Upon the first day, the whole faction (in a manner) appeared; but after one sight of it, they sent their proxies of serving-men and porters, to clap in the right of their patrons; and it was impossible ever to have gotten off the nonsense of three hours for half-a-crown, but for the providence of so congruous an audience. Thus far, I presume, the reckoning is even, for bad plays on both sides, and for plays written for a party. I shall say nothing of their poets' affection to the government; unless upon an absolute and an odious necessity. But to return to the pretended Parallel. I have said enough already to convince any man of common sense, that there neither was, nor could be, any Parallel intended; and it will farther appear, from the nature of the subject; there being no relation betwixt Henry the Third and the Duke of Guise, except that of the king's marrying into the family of Lorraine. If a comparison had been designed, how easy had it been either to have found a story, or to have invented one, where the ties of nature had been nearer? If we consider their actions, or their persons, a much less proportion will be yet found betwixt them; and if we bate the popularity, perhaps none at all. If we consider them in reference to their parties, the one was manifestly the leader; the other, at the worst, is but misled. The designs of the one tended openly to usurpation; those of the other may yet be interpreted more fairly; and I hope, from the natural candour and probity of his temper, that it will come to a perfect submission and reconcilement at last. But that which perfectly destroys this pretended Parallel is, that our picture of the Duke of Guise is exactly according to the original in the history; his actions, his manners, nay, sometimes his very words, are so justly copied, that whoever has read him in Davila, sees him the same here. There is no going out of the way, no dash of a pen to make any by-feature resemble him to any other man; and indeed, excepting his ambition, there was not in France, or perhaps in any other country, any man of his age vain enough to hope he could be mistaken for him.[6] So that if you would have made a Parallel, we could not. And yet I fancy, that where I make it my business to draw likeness, it will be no hard matter to judge who sate for the picture. For the Duke of Guise's return to Paris contrary to the king's order, enough already has been said; it was too considerable in the story to be omitted, because it occasioned the mischiefs that ensued. But in this likeness, which was only casual, no danger followed. I am confident there was none intended; and am satisfied that none was feared. But the argument drawn from our evident design is yet, if possible, more convincing. The first words of the prologue spake the play to be a Parallel, and then you are immediately informed how far that Parallel extended, and of what it is so: "The Holy League begot the Covenant, Guisards got the Whig, &c." So then it is not, (as the snarling authors of the Reflections tell you) a Parallel of the men, but of the times; a Parallel of the factions, and of the leaguers. And every one knows that this prologue was written before the stopping of the play. Neither was the name altered on any such account as they insinuate, but laid aside long before, because a book called the Parallel had been printed, resembling the French League to the English Covenant; and therefore we thought it not convenient to make use of another man's title.[7] The chief person in the tragedy, or he whose disasters are the subject of it, may in reason give the name; and so it was called the "Duke of Guise." Our intention therefore was to make the play a Parallel betwixt the Holy League, plotted by the house of Guise and its adherents, with the Covenant plotted by the rebels in the time of king Charles I. and those of the new Association, which was the spawn of the old Covenant. But this parallel is plain, that the exclusion of the lawful heir was the main design of both parties; and that the endeavours to get the lieutenancy of France established on the head of the League, is in effect the same with offering to get the militia out of the king's hand (as declared by parliament,) and consequently, that the power of peace and war should be wholly in the people. It is also true that the tumults in the city, in the choice of their officers, have had no small resemblance with a Parisian rabble: and I am afraid that both their faction and ours had the same good lord. I believe also, that if Julian had been written and calculated for the Parisians, as it was for our sectaries, one of their sheriffs might have mistaken too, and called him Julian the Apostle.[8] I suppose I need not push this point any further; where the parallel was intended, I am certain it will reach; but a larger account of the proceedings in the city may be expected from a better hand, and I have no reason to forestall it.[9] In the mean time, because there has been no actual rebellion, the faction triumph in their loyalty; which if it were out of principle, all our divisions would soon be ended, and we the happy people, which God and the constitution of our government have put us in condition to be; but so long as they take it for a maxim, that the king is but an officer in trust, that the people, or their representatives, are superior to him, judges of miscarriages, and have power of revocation, it is a plain case, that whenever they please they may take up arms; and, according to their doctrine, lawfully too. Let them jointly renounce this one opinion, as in conscience and law they are bound to do, because both scripture and acts of parliament oblige them to it, and we will then thank their obedience for our quiet, whereas now we are only beholden to them for their fear. The miseries of the last war are yet too fresh in all men's memory; and they are not rebels, only because they have been so too lately. An author of theirs has told us roundly the west-country proverb; _Chud eat more cheese, and chad it;_ their stomach is as good as ever it was; but the mischief on't is, they are either muzzled, or want their teeth. If there were as many fanatics now in England, as there were christians in the empire, when Julian reigned, I doubt we should not find them much inclined to passive obedience; and, "Curse ye Meroz"[10] would be oftener preached upon, than "Give to Caesar," except in the sense Mr Hunt means it. Having clearly shewn wherein the parallel consisted, which no man can mistake, who does not wilfully, I need not justify myself, in what concerns the sacred person of his majesty. Neither the French history, nor our own, could have supplied me, nor Plutarch himself, were he now alive, could have found a Greek or Roman to have compared to him, in that eminent virtue of his clemency; even his enemies must acknowledge it to be superlative, because they live by it. Far be it from flattery, if I say, that there is nothing under heaven, which can furnish me with a parallel; and that, in his mercy, he is of all men the truest image of his Maker. Henry III. was a prince of a mixed character; he had, as an old historian says of another, _magnas virtutes, nec minora vitia;_ but amongst those virtues, I do not find his forgiving qualities to be much celebrated. That he was deeply engaged in the bloody massacre of St Bartholomew, is notoriously known; and if the relation printed in the memoirs of Villeroy be true, he confesses there that the Admiral having brought him and the queen-mother into suspicion with his brother then reigning, for endeavouring to lessen his authority, and draw it to themselves, he first designed his accuser's death by Maurevel, who shot him with a carbine, but failed to kill him; after which, he pushed on the king to that dreadful revenge, which immediately succeeded. It is true, the provocations were high; there had been reiterated rebellions, but a peace was now concluded; it was solemnly sworn to by both parties, and as great an assurance of safety given to the protestants, as the word of a king and public instruments could make it. Therefore the punishment was execrable, and it pleased God, (if we may dare to judge of his secret providence,) to cut off that king in the very flower of his youth, to blast his successor in his undertakings, to raise against him the Duke of Guise, the complotter and executioner of that inhuman action, (who, by the divine justice, fell afterwards into the same snare which he had laid for others,) and, finally, to die a violent death himself, murdered by a priest, an enthusiast of his own religion.[11] From these premises, let it be concluded, if reasonably it can, that we could draw a parallel, where the lines were so diametrically opposite. We were indeed obliged, by the laws of poetry, to cast into shadows the vices of this prince; for an excellent critic has lately told us, that when a king is named, a hero is supposed;[12] it is a reverence due to majesty, to make the virtues as conspicuous, and the vices as obscure, as we can possibly; and this, we own, we have either performed, or at least endeavoured. But if we were more favourable to that character than the exactness of history would allow, we have been far from diminishing a greater, by drawing it into comparison. You may see, through the whole conduct of the play, a king naturally severe, and a resolution carried on to revenge himself to the uttermost on the rebellious conspirators. That this was sometimes shaken by reasons of policy and pity, is confessed; but it always returned with greater force, and ended at last in the ruin of his enemies. In the mean time we cannot but observe the wonderful loyalty on the other side; that the play was to be stopped, because the king was represented. May we have many such proofs of their duty and respect! but there was no occasion for them here. It is to be supposed, that his majesty himself was made acquainted with this objection; if he were so, he was the supreme and only judge of it; and then the event justifies us. If it were inspected only by those whom he commanded, it is hard if his own officers and servants should not see as much ill in it as other men, and be as willing to prevent it; especially when there was no solicitation used to have it acted. It is known that noble person,[13] to whom it was referred, is a severe critic on good sense, decency, and morality; and I can assure the world, that the rules of Horace are more familiar to him, than they are to me. He remembers too well that the _vetus comaedia_ was banished from the Athenian theatre for its too much licence in representing persons, and would never have pardoned it in this or any play. What opinion Henry III. had of his successor, is evident from the words he spoke upon his deathbed: "he exhorted the nobility," says Davila, "to acknowledge the king of Navarre, to whom the kingdom of right belonged; and that they should not stick at the difference of religion; for both the king of Navarre, a man of a sincere noble nature, would in the end return into the bosom of the church, and the pope, being better informed, would receive him into his favour, to prevent the ruin of the whole kingdom." I hope I shall not need in this quotation to defend myself, as if it were my opinion, that the pope has any right to dispose of kingdoms; my meaning is evident, that the king's judgment of his brother-in-law, was the same which I have copied; and I must farther add from Davila, that the arguments I have used in defence of that succession were chiefly drawn from the king's answer to the deputies, as they may be seen more at large in pages 730, and 731, of the first edition of that history in English. There the three estates, to the wonder of all men, jointly concurred in cutting off the succession; the clergy, who were managed by the archbishop of Lyons and cardinal of Guise, were the first who promoted it; and the commons and nobility afterwards consented, as referring themselves, says our author, to the clergy; so that there was only the king to stand in the gap; and he by artifice diverted that storm which was breaking upon posterity. The crown was then reduced to the lowest ebb of its authority; and the king, in a manner, stood single, and yet preserved his negative entire; but if the clergy and nobility had been on his part of the balance, it might reasonably be supposed, that the meeting of those estates at Blois had healed the breaches of the nation, and not forced him to the _ratio ultima regum_, which is never to be praised, nor is it here, but only excused as the last result of his necessity. As for the parallel betwixt the king of Navarre, and any other prince now living, what likeness the God of Nature, and the descent of virtues in the same channel have produced, is evident; I have only to say, that the nation certainly is happy, where the royal virtues of the progenitors are derived on their descendants.[14] In that scene, it is true, there is but one of the three estates mentioned; but the other two are virtually included; for the archbishop and cardinal are at the head of the deputies: And that the rest are mute persons every critic understands the reason, _ne quarta loqui persona laboret_. I am never willing to cumber the stage with many speakers, when I can reasonably avoid it, as here I might. And what if I had a mind to pass over the clergy and nobility of France in silence, and to excuse them from joining in so illegal, and so ungodly a decree? Am I tied in poetry to the strict rules of history? I have followed it in this play more closely than suited with the laws of the drama, and a great victory they will have, who shall discover to the world this wonderful secret, that I have not observed the unities of place and time; but are they better kept in the farce of the "Libertine destroyed?"[15] It was our common business here to draw the parallel of the times, and not to make an exact tragedy. For this once we were resolved to err with honest Shakespeare; neither can "Catiline" or "Sejanus," (written by the great master of our art,) stand excused, any more than we, from this exception; but if we must be criticised, some plays of our adversaries may be exposed, and let them reckon their gains when the dispute is ended. I am accused of ignorance, for speaking of the third estate, as not sitting in the same house with the other two. Let not those gentlemen mistake themselves; there are many things in plays to be accommodated to the country in which we live; I spoke to the understanding of an English audience. Our three estates now sit, and have long done so, in two houses; but our records bear witness, that they, according to the French custom, have sate in one; that is, the lords spiritual and temporal within the bar, and the commons without it. If that custom had been still continued here, it should have been so represented; but being otherwise, I was forced to write so as to be understood by our own countrymen. If these be errors, a bigger poet than either of us two has fallen into greater, and the proofs are ready, whenever the suit shall be recommenced. Mr Hunt, the Jehu of the party, begins very furiously with me, and says, "I have already condemned the charter and city, and have executed the magistrates in effigy upon the stage, in a play called the Duke of Guise, frequently acted and applauded, &c.[16]" Compare the latter end of this sentence with what the two authors of the Reflections, or perhaps the Associating Club of the Devil-tavern[17] write in the beginning of their libel:--"Never was mountain delivered of such a mouse; the fiercest Tories have been ashamed to defend this piece; they who have any sparks of wit among them are so true to their pleasure, that they will not suffer dulness to pass upon them for wit, nor tediousness for diversion; which is the reason that this piece has not met with the expected applause: I never saw a play more deficient in wit, good characters, or entertainment, than this is." For shame, gentlemen, pack your evidence a little better against another time. You see, my lord chief baron[18] has delivered his opinion, that the play was frequently acted and applauded; but you of the jury have found _Ignoramus_, on the wit and the success of it. Oates, Dugdale and Turberville, never disagreed more than you do; let us know at last, which of the witnesses are true Protestants, and which are Irish[19]. But it seems your authors had contrary designs: Mr Hunt thought fit to say, "it was frequently acted and applauded, because," says he, "it was intended to provoke the rabble into tumults and disorder." Now, if it were not seen frequently, this argument would lose somewhat of its force. The Reflector's business went another way; it was to be allowed no reputation, no success; but to be damned root and branch, to prevent the prejudice it might do their party: accordingly, as much as in them lay, they have drawn a bill of exclusion for it on the stage. But what rabble was it to provoke? Are the audience of a play-house, which are generally persons of honour, noblemen, and ladies, or, at worst, as one of your authors calls his gallants, men of wit and pleasure about the town[20],--are these the rabble of Mr Hunt? I have seen a rabble at Sir Edmundbury Godfrey's night, and have heard of such a name as true Protestant meeting-houses; but a rabble is not to be provoked, where it never comes. Indeed, we had one in this tragedy, but it was upon the stage; and that's the reason why your Reflectors would break the glass, which has shewed them their own faces. The business of the theatre is to expose vice and folly; to dissuade men by examples from one, and to shame them out of the other. And however you may pervert our good intentions, it was here particularly to reduce men to loyalty, by shewing the pernicious consequences of rebellion, and popular insurrections. I believe no man, who loves the government, would be glad to see the rabble in such a posture, as they were represented in our play; but if the tragedy had ended on your side, the play had been a loyal witty poem; the success of it should have been recorded by immortal Og or Doeg[21], and the rabble scene should have been true Protestant, though a whig-devil were at the head of it. In the mean time, pray, where lies the relation betwixt the "Tragedy of the Duke of Guise," and the charter of London? Mr Hunt has found a rare connection, for he tacks them together, by the kicking of the sheriff's. That chain of thought was a little ominous, for something like a kicking has succeeded the printing of his book; and the charter of London was the quarrel. For my part, I have not law enough to state that question, much less decide it; let the charter shift for itself in Westminster-hall the government is somewhat wiser than to employ my ignorance on such a subject. My promise to honest Nat. Lee, was the only bribe I had, to engage me in this trouble; for which he has the good fortune to escape Scot-free, and I am left in pawn for the reckoning, who had the least share in the entertainment. But the rising, it seems, should have been on the true protestant side; "for he has tried," says ingenious Mr Hunt, "what he could do, towards making the charter forfeitable, by some extravagancy and disorder of the people." A wise man I had been, doubtless, for my pains, to raise the rabble to a tumult, where I had been certainly one of the first men whom they had limbed, or dragged to the next convenient sign-post. But on second thought, he says, this ought not to move the citizens. He is much in the right; for the rabble scene was written on purpose to keep his party of them in the bounds of duty. It is the business of factious men to stir up the populace: Sir Edmond on horseback, attended by a swinging pope in effigy, and forty thousand true protestants for his guard to execution, are a show more proper for that design, than a thousand stage-plays[22]. Well, he has fortified his opinion with a reason, however, why the people should not be moved; "because I have so maliciously and mischievously represented the king, and the king's son; nay, and his favourite," saith he, "the duke too; to whom I give the worst strokes of my unlucky fancy." This need not be answered; for it is already manifest that neither the king, nor the king's son, are represented; neither that son he means, nor any of the rest, God bless them all. What strokes of my unlucky fancy I have given to his royal highness, will be seen; and it will be seen also, who strikes him worst and most unluckily. "The Duke of Guise," he tells us, "ought to have represented a great prince, that had inserved to some most detestable villainy, to please the rage or lust of a tyrant; such great courtiers have been often sacrificed, to appease the furies of the tyrant's guilty conscience; to expiate for his sin, and to attone the people. For a tyrant naturally stands in fear of such wicked ministers, is obnoxious to them, awed by them, and they drag him to greater evils, for their own impunity, than they perpetrated for his pleasure, and their own ambition[23]." Sure, he said not all this for nothing. I would know of him, on what persons he would fix the sting of this sharp satire? What two they are, whom, to use his own words, he "so maliciously and mischievously would represent?" For my part, I dare not understand the villainy of his meaning; but somebody was to have been shown a tyrant, and some other "a great prince, inserving to some detestable villainy, and to that tyrant's rage and lust;" this great prince or courtier ought to be sacrificed, to atone the people, and the tyrant is persuaded, for his own interest, to give him up to public justice. I say no more, but that he has studied the law to good purpose. He is dancing on the rope without a metaphor; his knowledge of the law is the staff that poizes him, and saves his neck. The party, indeed, speaks out sometimes, for wickedness is not always so wise as to be secret, especially when it is driven to despair. By some of their discourses, we may guess at whom he points; but he has fenced himself in with so many evasions, that he is safe in his sacrilege; and he, who dares to answer him, may become obnoxious. It is true, he breaks a little out of the clouds, within two paragraphs; for there he tells you, that "Caius Caesar (to give into Caesar the things that were Caesar's,) was in the catiline conspiracy;" a fine insinuation this, to be sneered at by his party, and yet not to be taken hold of by public justice. They would be glad now, that I, or any man, should bolt out their covert treason for them; for their loop-hole is ready, that the Caesar, here spoken of, was a private man. But the application of the text declares the author's to be another Caesar; which is so black and so infamous an aspersion, that nothing less than the highest clemency can leave it unpunished. I could reflect on his ignorance in this place, for attributing these words to Caesar, "He that is not with us, is against us:" He seems to have mistaken them out of the New-Testament, and that is the best defence I can make for him; for if he did it knowingly, it was impiously done, to put our Saviour's words into Caesar's mouth. But his law and our gospel are two things; this gentleman's knowledge is not of the bible, any more than his practice is according to it. He tells you, he will give the world a taste of my atheism and impiety; for which he quotes these following verses, in the second or third act of the "Duke of Guise." For conscience or heaven's fear, religious rules, Are all state bells, to toll in pious fools. In the first place, he is mistaken in his man, for the verses are not mine, but Mr Lee's: I asked him concerning them, and have this account,--that they were spoken by the devil; now, what can either whig or devil say, more proper to their character, than that religion is only a name, a stalking-horse, as errant a property as godliness and property themselves are amongst their party? Yet for these two lines, which, in the mouth that speaks them, are of no offence, he halloos on the whole pack against me: judge, justice, surrogate, and official are to be employed, at his suit, to direct process; and boring through the tongue for blasphemy, is the least punishment his charity will allow me. I find it is happy for me, that he was not made a judge, and yet I had as lieve have him my judge as my council, if my life were at stake. My poor Lord Stafford was well helped up with this gentleman for his solicitor: no doubt, he gave that unfortunate nobleman most admirable advice towards the saving of his life; and would have rejoiced exeedingly, to have seen him cleared[24]. I think, I have disproved his instance of my atheism; it remains for him to justify his religion, in putting the words of Christ into a Heathen's mouth; and much more in his prophane allusion to the scripture, in the other text,--"Give unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's;" which, if it be not a profanation of the bible, for the sake of a silly witticism, let all men, but his own party, judge. I am not malicious enough to return him the names which he has called me; but of all sins, I thank God, I have always abhorred atheism; and I had need be a better Christian than Mr Hunt has shown himself, if I forgive him so infamous a slander. But as he has mistaken our Saviour for Julius Caesar, so he would Pompey too, if he were let alone; to him, and to his cause, or to the like cause it belonged, he says, to use these words:--"he that is not for us is against us." I find he cares not whose the expression is, so it be not Christ's. But how comes Pompey the Great to be a whig? He was, indeed, a defender of the ancient established Roman government; but Caesar was the whig who took up arms unlawfully to subvert it. Our liberties and our religion both are safe; they are secured to us by the laws; and those laws are executed under an established government, by a lawful king. The Defender of our Faith is the defender of our common freedom; to cabal, to write, to rail against this administration are all endeavours to destroy the government; and to oppose the succession, in any private man, is a treasonable practice against the foundation of it. Pompey very honourably maintained the liberty of his country, which was governed by a common-wealth: so that there lies no parallel betwixt his cause and Mr Hunt's, except in the bare notion of a common-wealth, as it is opposed to monarchy; and that's the thing he would obliquely slur upon us. Yet on these premises, he is for ordering my lord chief justice to grant out warrants against all those who have applauded the "Duke of Guise;" as if they committed a riot when they clapped. I suppose they paid for their places, as well as he and his party did, who hissed. If he were not half distracted, for not being lord chief baron, methinks he should be lawyer enough to advise my lord chief justice better. To clap and hiss are the privileges of a free-born subject in a playhouse: they buy them with their money, and their hands and mouths are their own property. It belongs to the Master of the Revels to see that no treason or immorality be in the play; but when it is acted, let every man like or dislike freely: not but that respect should be used too, in the presence of the king; for by his permission the actors are allowed: it is due to his person, as he is sacred; and to the successors, as being next related to him: there are opportunities enow for men to hiss, who are so disposed, in their absence; for when the king is in sight, though but by accident, a malefactor is reprieved from death. Yet such is the duty, and good manners of these good subjects, that they forbore not some rudeness in his majesty's presence; but when his Royal Highness and his court were only there, they pushed it as far as their malice had power; and if their party had been more numerous, the affront had been greater. The next paragraph of our author's is a panegyric on the Duke of Monmouth, which concerns not me, who am very far from detracting from him. The obligations I have had to him, were those of his countenance, his favour, his good word, and his esteem; all which I have likewise had, in a greater measure, from his excellent duchess, the patroness of my poor unworthy poetry. If I had not greater, the fault was never in their want of goodness to me, but in my own backwardness to ask, which has always, and, I believe, will ever, keep me from rising in the world. Let this be enough, with reasonable men, to clear me from the imputation of an ungrateful man, with which my enemies have most unjustly taxed me. If I am a mercenary scribbler, the lords commissioners of the treasury best know: I am sure, they have found me no importunate solicitor; for I know myself, I deserved little, and, therefore, have never desired much. I return that slander, with just disdain, on my accusers: it is for men who have ill consciences to suspect others; I am resolved to stand or fall with the cause of my God, my king, and country; never to trouble myself for any railing aspersions, which I have not deserved; and to leave it as a portion to my children,--that they had a father, who durst do his duty, and was neither covetous nor mercenary. As little am I concerned at that imputation of my back-friends, that I have confessed myself to be put on to write as I do. If they mean this play in particular, that is notoriously proved against them to be false; for the rest of my writings, my hatred of their practices and principles was cause enough to expose them as I have done, and will do more. I do not think as they do; for, if I did, I must think treason; but I must in conscience write as I do, because I know, which is more than thinking, that I write for a lawful established government, against anarchy, innovation, and sedition: but "these lies (as prince Harry said to Falstaff) are as gross as he that made them[25]." More I need not say, for I am accused without witness. I fear not any of their evidences, not even him of Salamanca; who though he has disowned his doctorship in Spain, yet there are some allow him to have taken a certain degree in Italy; a climate, they say, more proper for his masculine constitution[26]. To conclude this ridiculous accusation against me, I know but four men, in their whole party, to whom I have spoken for above this year last past; and with them neither, but casually and cursorily. We have been acquaintance of a long standing, many years before this accursed plot divided men into several parties; I dare call them to witness, whether the most I have at any time said will amount to more than this, that "I hoped the time would come, when these names of whig and tory would cease among us; and that we might live together, as we had done formerly." I have, since this pamphlet, met accidentally with two of them; and I am sure, they are so far from being my accusers, that they have severally owned to me, that all men, who espouse a party, must expect to be blackened by the contrary side; that themselves knew nothing of it, nor of the authors of the "Reflections." It remains, therefore, to be considered, whether, if I were as much a knave as they would make me, I am fool enough to be guilty of this charge; and whether they, who raised it, would have made it public, if they had thought I was theirs inwardly. For it is plain, they are glad of worse scribblers than I am, and maintain them too, as I could prove, if I envied them their miserable subsistence. I say no more, but let my actions speak for me: _Spectemur agendo,_--that is the trial. Much less am I concerned at the noble name of Bayes; that is a brat so like his own father, that he cannot be mistaken for any other body[27]. They might as reasonably have called Tom Sternhold, Virgil, and the resemblance would have held as well. As for knave, and sycophant, and rascal, and impudent, and devil, and old serpent, and a thousand such good morrows, I take them to be only names of parties; and could return murderer, and cheat, and whig-napper, and sodomite; and, in short, the goodly number of the seven deadly sins, with all their kindred and relations, which are names of parties too; but saints will be saints, in spite of villainy. I believe they would pass themselves upon us for such a compound as mithridate, or Venice-treacle; as if whiggism were an admirable cordial in the mass, though the several ingredients are rank poisons. But if I think either Mr Hunt a villain, or know any of my Reflectors to be ungrateful rogues, I do not owe them so much kindness as to call them so; for I am satisfied that to prove them either, would but recommend them to their own party. Yet if some will needs make a merit of their infamy, and provoke a legend of their sordid lives, I think they must be gratified at last; and though I will not take the scavenger's employment from him, yet I may be persuaded to point at some men's doors, who have heaps of filth before them. But this must be when they have a little angered me; for hitherto I am provoked no further than to smile at them. And indeed, to look upon the whole faction in a lump, never was a more pleasant sight than to behold these builders of a new Babel, how ridiculously they are mixed, and what a rare confusion there is amongst them. One part of them is carrying stone and mortar for the building of a meeting-house; another sort understand not that language; they are for snatching away their work-fellows' materials to set up a bawdy-house: some of them blaspheme, and others pray; and both, I believe, with equal godliness at bottom: some of them are atheists, some sectaries, yet all true protestants. Most of them love all whores, but her of Babylon. In few words, any man may be what he will, so he be one of them. It is enough to despise the King, to hate the Duke, and rail at the succession: after this it is no matter how a man lives; he is a saint by infection; he goes along with the party, has their mark upon him; his wickedness is no more than frailty; their righteousness is imputed to him: so that, as ignorant rogues go out doctors when a prince comes to an university, they hope, at the last day, to take their degree in a crowd of true protestants, and thrust unheeded into heaven[28]. It is a credit to be railed at by such men as these. The charter-man, in the very title-page, where he hangs out the cloth of the city before his book, gives it for his motto, _Si populus vult decipi, decipiatur_[29]; as if he should have said, "you have a mind to be cozened, and the devil give you good on't." If I cry a sirreverence, and you take it for honey, make the best of your bargain. For shame, good Christians, can you suffer such a man to starve, when you see his design is upon your purses? He is contented to expose the ears representative of your party on the pillory, and is in a way of doing you more service than a worn-out witness, who can hang nobody hereafter but himself. He tells you, "The papists clap their hands, in the hopes they conceive of the ruin of your government:" Does not this single syllable _your_ deserve a pension, if he can prove the government to be yours, and that the king has nothing to do in your republic? He continues, as if that were as sure and certain to them, as it is to us, without doubt, that they (the papists) once fired the city, just as certain in your own consciences. I wish the papists had no more to answer for than that accusation. Pray let it be put to the vote, and resolved upon the question, by your whole party, that the North-east wind is not only ill-affected to man and beast, but is also a tory or tantivy papist in masquerade[30]. I am satisfied, not to have "so much art left me, as to frame any thing agreeable, or verisimilar;" but it is plain that he has, and therefore, as I ought in justice, I resign my laurel, and my bays too, to Mr Hunt; it is he sets up for the poet now, and has the only art to amuse and to deceive the people. You may see how profound his knowledge is in poetry; for he tells you just before, "that my heroes are commonly such monsters as Theseus and Hercules; renowned throughout all ages for destroying[31]." Now Theseus and Hercules, you know, have been the heroes of all poets, and have been renowned through all ages, for destroying monsters, for succouring the distressed, and for putting to death inhuman arbitrary tyrants. Is this your oracle? If he were to write the acts and monuments of whig heroes, I find they should be quite contrary to mine: Destroyers indeed,--but of a lawful government; murderers,--but of their fellow-subjects; lovers, as Hercules was of Hylas; with a journey at last to hell, like that of Theseus. But mark the wise consequences of our author. "I have not," he says, "so much art left me to make any thing agreeable, or verisimilar, wherewith to amuse or deceive the people." And yet, in the very next paragraph, "my province is to corrupt the manners of the nation, and lay waste their morals, and my endeavours are more happily applied, to extinguish the little remainders of the virtue of the age." Now, I am to perform all this, it seems, without making any thing verisimilar or agreeable! Why, Pharaoh never set the Israelites such a task, to build pyramids without brick or straw. If the fool knows it not, verisimilitude and agreeableness are the very tools to do it; but I am willing to disclaim them both, rather than to use them to so ill purpose as he has done. Yet even this their celebrated writer knows no more of stile and English than the Northern dictator; as if dulness and clumsiness were fatal to the name of _Tom_. It is true, he is a fool in three languages more than the poet; for, they say, "he understands Latin, Greek, and Hebrew," from all which, to my certain knowledge, I acquit the other. Og may write against the king, if he pleases, so long as he drinks for him, and his writings will never do the government so much harm, as his drinking does it good; for true subjects will not be much perverted by his libels; but the wine-duties rise considerably by his claret. He has often called me an atheist in print; I would believe more charitably of him, and that he only goes the broad way, because the other is too narrow for him. He may see, by this, I do not delight to meddle with his course of life, and his immoralities, though I have a long bead-roll of them. I have hitherto contented myself with the ridiculous part of him, which is enough, in all conscience, to employ one man; even without the story of his late fall at the Old Devil, where he broke no ribs, because the hardness of the stairs could reach no bones; and, for my part, I do not wonder how he came to fall, for I have always known him heavy: the miracle is, how he got up again. I have heard of a sea captain as fat as he, who, to escape arrests, would lay himself flat upon the ground, and let the bailiffs carry him to prison, if they could. If a messenger or two, nay, we may put in three or four, should come, he has friendly advertisement how to escape them. But to leave him, who is not worth any further consideration, now I have done laughing at him,--would every man knew his own talent, and that they, who are only born for drinking, would let both poetry and prose alone[32]! I am weary with tracing the absurdities and mistakes of our great lawyer, some of which indeed are wilful; as where he calls the _Trimmers_ the more moderate sort of tories. It seems those politicians are odious to both sides; for neither own them to be theirs. We know them, and so does he too in his conscience, to be secret whigs, if they are any thing; but now the designs of whiggism are openly discovered, they tack about to save a stake; that is, they will not be villains to their own ruin. While the government was to be destroyed, and there was probability of compassing it, no men were so violent as they; but since their fortunes are in hazard by the law, and their places at court by the king's displeasure, they pull in their horns, and talk more peaceably; in order, I suppose, to their vehemence on the right side, if they were to be believed. For in laying of colours, they observe a medium; black and white are too far distant to be placed directly by one another, without some shadowings to soften their contrarieties. It is Mariana, I think, (but am not certain) that makes the following relation; and let the noble family of Trimmers read their own fortune in it. "Don Pedro, king of Castile, surnamed the Cruel, who had been restored by the valour of our Edward the Black Prince, was finally dispossessed by Don Henry, the bastard, and he enjoyed the kingdom quietly, till his death; which when he felt approaching, he called his son to him, and gave him this his last counsel. I have (said he,) gained this kingdom, which I leave you, by the sword; for the right of inheritance was in Don Pedro; but the favour of the people, who hated my brother for his tyranny, was to me instead of title. You are now to be the peaceable possessor of what I have unjustly gotten; and your subjects are composed of these three sorts of men. One party espoused my brother's quarrel, which was the undoubted lawful cause; those, though they were my enemies, were men of principle and honour: Cherish them, and exalt them into places of trust about you, for in them you may confide safely, who prized their fidelity above their fortune. Another sort, are they who fought my cause against Don Pedro; to those you are indeed obliged, because of the accidental good they did me; for they intended only their private benefit, and helped to raise me, that I might afterwards promote them: you may continue them in their offices, if you please; but trust them no farther than you are forced; for what they did was against their conscience. But there is a third sort, which, during the whole wars, were neuters; let them be crushed on all occasions, for their business was only their own security. They had neither courage enough to engage on my side, nor conscience enough to help their lawful sovereign: _Therefore let them be made examples, as the worst sort of interested men, which certainly are enemies to both, and would be profitable to neither._" I have only a dark remembrance of this story, and have not the Spanish author by me, but, I think, I am not much mistaken in the main of it; and whether true or false, the counsel given, I am sure, is such, as ought, in common prudence, to be practised against Trimmers, whether the lawful or unlawful cause prevail. Loyal men may justly be displeased with this party, not for their moderation, as Mr Hunt insinuates, but because, under that mask of seeming mildness, there lies hidden either a deep treachery, or, at best, an interested luke-warmness. But he runs riot into almost treasonable expressions, as if "Trimmers were hated because they are not perfectly wicked, or perfectly deceived; of the Catiline make, bold, and without understanding; that can adhere to men that publicly profess murders, and applaud the design:" by all which villainous names he opprobriously calls his majesty's most loyal subjects; as if men must be perfectly wicked, who endeavour to support a lawful government; or perfectly deceived, who on no occasion dare take up arms against their sovereign: as if acknowledging the right of succession, and resolving to maintain it in the line, were to be in a Catiline conspiracy; and at last, (which is ridiculous enough, after so much serious treason) as if "to clap the Duke of Guise" were to adhere to men that publicly profess murders, and applaud the design of the assassinating poets. But together with his villainies, pray let his incoherences be observed. He commends the Trimmers, (at least tacitly excuses them) for men of some moderation; and this in opposition to the instruments of wickedness of the Catiline make, that are resolute and forward, and without consideration. But he forgets all this in the next twenty lines; for there he gives them their own, and tells them roundly, _in internecino bello, medii pro hostibus habentur._ Neutral men are traitors, and assist by their indifferency to the destruction of the government. The plain English of his meaning is this; while matters are only in dispute, and in machination, he is contented they should be moderate; but when once the faction can bring about a civil war, then they are traitors, if they declare not openly for them. "But it is not," says he, "the Duke of Guise who is to be assassinated, a turbulent, wicked, and haughty courtier, but an innocent and gentle prince." By his favour, our Duke of Guise was neither innocent nor gentle, nor a prince of the blood royal, though he pretended to descend from Charlemagne, and a genealogy was printed to that purpose, for which the author was punished, as he deserved; witness Davila, and the journals of Henry III. where the story is at large related. Well, who is it then? why, "it is a prince who has no fault, but that he is the king's son:" then he has no fault by consequence; for I am certain, that is no fault of his. The rest of the compliment is so silly, and so fulsome, as if he meant it all in ridicule; and to conclude the jest, he says, that "the best people of England have no other way left, to shew their loyalty to the king, their religion and government, in long intervals of parliament, than by prosecuting his son, for the sake of the king, and his own merit, with all the demonstrations of the highest esteem." Yes, I can tell them one other way to express their loyalty, which is, to obey the king, and to respect his brother, as the next lawful successor; their religion commands them both, and the government is secured in so doing. But why in intervals of parliament? How are they more obliged to honour the king's son out of parliament, than in it? And why this prosecution of love for the king's sake? Has he ordered more love to be shewn to one son, than to another? Indeed, his own quality is cause sufficient for all men to respect him, and I am of their number, who truly honour him, and who wish him better than this miserable sycophant; for I wish him, from his father's royal kindness, what justice can make him, which is a greater honour than the rabble can confer upon him. But our author finds, that commendation is no more his talent, than flattery was that of AEsop's ass; and therefore falls immediately, from pawing with his fore-feet, and grinning upon one prince, to downright braying against another. He says, I have not used "my patron duke much better; for I have put him under a most dismal and unfortunate character of a successor, excluded from the crown by act of state, for his religion; who fought his way to the crown, changed his religion, and died by the hand of a Roman assassinate." If it please his Royal Highness to be my patron, I have reason to be proud of it; because he never yet forsook any man, whom he has had the goodness to own for his. But how have I put him under an unfortunate character? the authors of the Reflections, and our John-a-Nokes, have not laid their noddles together about this accusation. For it is their business to prove the king of Navarre to have been a most successful, magnanimous, gentle, and grateful prince; in which character they have followed the stream of all historians. How then happens this jarring amongst friends, that the same man is put under such dismal circumstances on one side, and so fortunate on the other, by the writers of the same party? The answer is very plain; that they take the cause by several handles. They, who will not have the Duke resemble the king of Navarre, have magnified the character of that prince, to debase his Royal Highness; and therein done what they can to shew the disparity. Mr Hunt, who will have it to be the Duke's character, has blackened that king as much as he is able, to shew the likeness. Now this would be ridiculous pleading at a bar, by lawyers retained for the same cause; and both sides would call each other fools, because the jury betwixt them would be confounded, and perhaps the judges too. But this it is to have a bad cause, which puts men of necessity upon knavery; and that knavery is commonly found out. Well, Mr Hunt has in another place confessed himself to be in passion, and that is the reason he is so grosly mistaken in opening of the cause. For, first, the king of Navarre was neither under dismal, nor unfortunate circumstances: before the end of that very sentence, our lawyer has confessed, that he fought his way to the crown; that is, he gloriously vanquished all his rebels, and happily possessed his inheritance many years after he had regained it. In the next place, he was never excluded from the crown by act of state. He changed his religion indeed, but not until he had almost weathered the storm, recovered the best part of his estate, and gained some glorious victories in pitched battles; so that his changing cannot without injustice be attributed to his fear. Monsieur Chiverny, in his Memoirs of those times, plainly tells us, that he solemnly promised to his predecessor Henry III. then dying, that he would become a Romanist; and Davila, though he says not this directly, yet denies it not. By whose hands Henry IV. died, is notoriously known; but it is invidiously urged, both by Mr Hunt and the Reflectors: for we may, to our shame, remember, that a king of our own country was barbarously murdered by his subjects, who professed the same religion; though I believe, that neither Jaques Clement, nor Ravaillac, were better papists, than the independents and presbyterians were protestants; so that their argument only proves, that there are rogues of all religions: _Iliacos infra muros peccatur, et extra._ But Mr Hunt follows his blow again, that I have "offered a justification of an act of exclusion against a popish successor in a protestant kingdom, by remembering what was done against the king of Navarre, who was _de facto_ excluded by an act of state." My gentleman, I perceive, is very willing to call that an act of exclusion, and an act of state, which is only, in our language, called a bill; for Henry III. could never be gained to pass it, though it was proposed by the three estates at Blois. The Reflectors are more modest; for they profess, (though I am afraid it is somewhat against the grain,) that a vote of the House of Commons is not an act; but the times are turned upon them, and they dare speak no other language. Mr Hunt, indeed, is a bold republican, and tells you the bottom of their meaning. Yet why should it make the "courage of his Royal Highness quail, to find himself under this representation," which; by our author's favour, is neither dismal, nor disastrous? Henry IV. escaped this dreadful machine of the League; I say dreadful, for the three estates were at that time composed generally of Guisards, factious, hot-headed, rebellious interested men. The king in possession was but his brother-in-law, and at the time publicly his enemy; for the king of Navarre was then in arms against him; and yet the sense of common justice, and the good of his people so prevailed, that he withstood the project of the states, which he also knew was levelled at himself; for had the exclusion proceeded, he had been immediately laid by, and the lieutenancy of France conferred on Guise; after which the rebel would certainly have put up his title for the crown. In the case of his Royal Highness, only one of the three estates have offered at the exclusion, and have been constantly opposed by the other two, and by his majesty. Neither is it any way probable, that the like will ever be again attempted; for the fatal consequences, as well as the illegality of that design, are seen through already by the people; so that, instead of offering a justification of an act of exclusion, I have exposed a rebellious, impious, and fruitless contrivance tending to it. If we look on the parliament of Paris, when they were in their right wits, before they were intoxicated by the League, (at least wholly) we shall find them addressing to king Henry III. in another key, concerning the king of Navarre's succession, though he was at that time, as they called it, a relapsed heretic. And to this purpose I will quote a passage out of the journals of Henry III. so much magnified by my adversaries. Towards the end of September, 1585, there was published at Paris a bull of excommunication against the king of Navarre, and the prince of Conde. The parliament of Paris made their remonstrance to the king upon it, which was both grave, and worthy of the place they held, and of the authority they have in this kingdom; saying for conclusion, that "their court had found the stile of this bull so full of innovation, and so distant from the modesty of ancient Popes, that they could not understand in it the voice of an Apostle's successor; forasmuch, as they found not in their records, nor in the search of all antiquity, that the princes of France had ever been subject to the justice or jurisdiction of the Pope, and they could not take it into consideration, until first he made appear the right which he pretended in the translation of kingdoms, established and ordained by Almighty God, before the name of Pope was heard of in the world." It is plain by this, that the parliament of Paris acknowledged an inherent right of succession in the king of Navarre, though of a contrary religion to their own. And though, after the duke of Guise's murder at Blois, the city of Paris revolted from their obedience to their king, pretending, that he was fallen from the crown, by reason of that and other actions, with which they charged him; yet the sum of all their power to renounce him, and create the duke of Mayenne lieutenant-general, depended ultimately on the Pope's authority; which, as you see, but three years before, they had peremptorily denied. The college of Sorbonne began the dance, by their determination, that the kingly right was forfeited; and, stripping him of all his dignities, they called him plain Henry de Valois: after this, says my author, "sixteen rascals (by which he means the council of that number) having administered the oath of government to the duke of Mayenne, to take in quality of lieutenant-general of the estate and crown of France, the same ridiculous dignity was confirmed to him by an imaginary parliament, the true parliament being detained prisoners, in divers of the city gaols, and two new seals were ordered to be immediately made, with this inscription,--the Seal of the Kingdom of France." I need not enlarge on this relation: it is evident from hence, that the Sorbonnists were the original, and our Schismatics in England were the copiers of rebellion; that Paris began, and London followed. The next lines of my author are, that "a gentleman of Paris made the duke of Mayenne's picture to be drawn, with a crown imperial on his head;" and I have heard of an English nobleman, who has at this day a picture of old Oliver, with this motto underneath it,--_Utinam vixeris._ All this while, this cannot be reckoned an act of state, for the deposing king Henry III., because it was an act of overt rebellion in the Parisians; neither could the holding of the three estates at Paris, afterwards, by the same duke of Mayenne, devolve any right on him, in prejudice of king Henry IV.; though those pretended states declared his title void, on the account of his religion; because those estates could neither be called nor holden, but by, and under the authority of, the lawful king. It would take more time than I have allowed for this Vindication, or I could easily trace from the French history, what misfortunes attended France, and how near it was to ruin, by the endeavours to alter the succession. For first, it was actually dismembered, the duke of Mercaeur setting up a principality in the dutchy of Bretagne, independent of the crown. The duke of Mayenne had an evident design to be elected king, by the favour of the people and the Pope: the young dukes of Guise and of Nemours aspired, with the interest of the Spaniards, to be chosen, by their marriage with the Infanta Isabella. The duke of Lorraine was for cantling out some part of France, which lay next his territories; and the duke of Savoy had, before the death of Henry III., actually possessed himself of the marquisate of Saluces. But above all, the Spaniards fomented these civil wars, in hopes to reduce that flourishing kingdom under their own monarchy. To as many, and as great mischiefs, should we be evidently subject, if we should madly engage ourselves in the like practices of altering the succession, which our gracious king in his royal wisdom well foresaw, and has cut up that accursed project by the roots; which will render the memory of his justice and prudence immortal and sacred to future ages, for having not only preserved our present quiet, but secured the peace of our posterity. It is clearly manifest, that no act of state passed, to the exclusion of either the King of Navarre, or of Henry the fourth, consider him in either of the two circumstances; but Oracle Hunt, taking this for granted, would prove _a fortiori_, "that if a protestant prince were actually excluded from a popish kingdom, then a popish successor is more reasonably to be excluded from a protestant kingdom; because," says he, "a protestant prince is under no obligation to destroy his popish subjects, but a popish prince is to destroy his protestant subjects:" Upon which bare supposition, without farther proof, he calls him insufferable tyrant, and the worst of monsters. Now, I take the matter quite otherwise, and bind myself to maintain that there is not, nor can be any obligation, for a king to destroy his subjects of a contrary persuasion to the established religion of his country; for, _quatenus_ subjects, of what religion soever he is infallibly bound to preserve and cherish, and not to destroy them; and this is the first duty of a lawful sovereign, as such, antecedent to any tie or consideration of his religion. Indeed, in those countries where the Inquisition is introduced, it goes harder with protestants, and the reason is manifest; because the protestant religion has not gotten footing there, and severity is the means to keep it out; but to make this instance reach England, our religion must not only be changed, (which in itself is almost impossible to imagine,) but the council of Trent received, and the Inquisition admitted, which many popish countries have rejected. I forget not the cruelties, which were exercised in Queen Mary's time against the protestants; neither do I any way excuse them; but it follows not, that every popish successor should take example by them, for every one's conscience of the same religion is not guided by the same dictates in his government; neither does it follow, that if one be cruel, another must, especially when there is a stronger obligation, and greater interest to the contrary: for, if a popish king in England should be bound to destroy his protestant people, I would ask the question, over whom he meant to reign afterwards? And how many subjects would be left? In Queen Mary's time, the protestant religion had scarcely taken root; and it is reasonable to be supposed, that she found the number of papists equalling that of the protestants, at her entrance to the kingdom; especially if we reckon into the account those who were the Trimmers of the times; I mean such, who privately were papists, though under her protestant predecessor they appeared otherwise; therefore her difficulties in persecuting her reformed subjects, were far from being so insuperable as ours now are, when the strength and number of the papists is so very inconsiderable. They, who cast in the church of England as ready to embrace popery, are either knaves enough to know they lie, or fools enough not to have considered the tenets of that church, which are diametrically opposite to popery; and more so than any of the sects. Not to insist on the quiet and security, which protestant subjects at this day enjoy in some parts of Germany, under popish princes; where I have been assured, that mass is said, and a Lutheran sermon preached in different parts of the same church, on the same day, without disturbance on either side; nor on the privileges granted by Henry the fourth of France to his party, after he had forsaken their opinions, which they quietly possessed for a long time after his death. The French histories are full of examples, manifestly proving, that the fiercest of their popish princes have not thought themselves bound to destroy their protestant subjects; and the several edicts, granted under them, in favour of the reformed religion, are pregnant instances of this truth. I am not much given to quotations, but Davila lies open for every man to read. Tolerations, and free exercise of religion, granted more amply in some, more restrainedly in others, are no sign that those princes held themselves obliged in conscience to destroy men of a different persuasion. It will be said, those tolerations were gained by force of arms. In the first place, it is no great credit to the protestant religion, that the protestants in France were actually rebels; but the truth is, they were only Geneva protestants, and their opinions were far distant from those of the church of England, which teaches passive obedience to all her sons, and not to propagate religion by rebellion. But it is further to be considered, that those French kings, though papists, thought the preservation of their subjects, and the public peace, were to be considered, before the gratification of the court of Rome; and though the number of the papists exceeded that of the protestants, in the proportion of three to one, though the protestants were always beaten when they fought, and though the pope pressed continually with exhortations and threatenings to extirpate Calvinism, yet kings thought it enough to continue in their own religion themselves, without forcing it upon their subjects, much less destroying them who professed another. But it will be objected, those edicts of toleration were not kept on the papists' side: they would answer, because the protestants stretched their privileges further than was granted, and that they often relapsed into rebellion; but whether or no the protestants were in fault, I leave history to determine. It is matter of fact, that they were barbarously massacred, under the protection of the public faith; therefore, to argue fairly, either an oath from protestants is not to be taken by a popish prince; or, if taken, ought inviolably to be preserved. For, when we oblige ourselves to any one, it is not his person we so much consider, as that of the Most High God, who is called to witness this our action; and it is to Him we are to discharge our conscience. Neither is there, or can be any tie on human society, when that of an oath is no more regarded; which being an appeal to God, He is immediate judge of it; and chronicles are not silent how often He has punished perjured kings. The instance of Vladislaus King of Hungary, breaking his faith with Amurath the Turk, at the instigation of Julian the Pope's legate, and his miserable death ensuing it, shews that even to infidels, much more to Christians, that obligation ought to be accounted sacred[33]. And I the rather urge this, because it is an argument taken almost _verbatim_ from a papist, who accuses Catharine de Medicis for violating her word given to the protestants during her regency of France. What securities in particular we have, that our own religion and liberties would be preserved though under a popish successor, any one may inform himself at large in a book lately written by the reverend and learned doctor Hicks, called Jovian, in answer to Julian the Apostate[34]; in which that truly Christian author has satisfied all scruples which reasonable men can make, and proved that we are in no danger of losing either; and wherein also, if those assurances should all fail, (which is almost morally impossible,) the doctrine of passive obedience is unanswerably demonstrated; a doctrine delivered with so much sincerity, and resignation of spirit, that it seems evident the assertor of it is ready, if there were occasion, to seal it with his blood. I have done with mannerly Mr Hunt, who is only _magni nominis umbra_; the most malicious, and withal, the most incoherent ignorant scribbler of the whole party. I insult not over his misfortunes, though he has himself occasioned them; and though I will not take his own excuse, that he is in passion, I will make a better for him, for I conclude him cracked; and if he should return to England, am charitable enough to wish his only prison might be Bedlam. This apology is truer than that he makes for me; for writing a play, as I conceive, is not entering into the Observator's province; neither is it the Observator's manner to confound truth with falsehood, to put out the eyes of people, and leave them without understanding. The quarrel of the party to him is, that he has undeceived the ignorant, and laid open the shameful contrivances of the new vamped Association; that though he is "on the wrong side of life," as he calls it, yet he pleads not his age to be _emeritus_; that, in short, he has left the faction as bare of arguments, as AEsop's bird of feathers; and plumed them of all those fallacies and evasions which they borrowed from jesuits and presbyterians. Now for my templar and poet in association for a libel, like the conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in a fiery sign. What the one wants in wit, the other must supply in law. As for malice, their quotas are indifferently well adjusted; the rough draught, I take for granted, is the poet's, the finishings the lawyer's. They begin,--that in order to one Mr Friend's commands, one of them went to see the play. This was not the poet, I am certain; for nobody saw him there, and he is not of a size to be concealed. But the mountain, they say, was delivered of a mouse. I have been gossip to many such labours of a dull fat scribbler, where the mountain has been bigger, and the mouse less. The next sally is on the city-elections, and a charge is brought against my lord mayor, and the two sheriffs, for excluding true electors. I have heard, that a Whig gentleman of the Temple hired a livery-gown, to give his voice among the companies at Guild-hall; let the question be put, whether or no he were a true elector?--Then their own juries are commended from several topics; they are the wisest, richest, and most conscientious: to which is answered, _ignoramus_. But our juries give most prodigious and unheard-of damages. Hitherto there is nothing but boys-play in our authors: _My mill grinds pepper and spice, your mill grinds rats and mice._ They go on,--"if I may be allowed to judge;" (as men that do not poetize may be judges of wit, human nature, and common decencies;) so then the sentence is begun with _I_; there is but one of them puts in for a judge's place, that is, he in the grey; but presently it is--_men_; two more in buckram would be judges too. Neither of them, it seems, poetize; that is true, but both of them are in at rhime doggrel; witness the song against the bishops, and the Tunbridge ballad[35]. By the way, I find all my scribbling enemies have a mind to be judges, and chief barons. Proceed, gentlemen:--"This play, as I am informed by some, who have a nearer communication with the poets and the players, than I have,--". Which of the two Sosias is it that now speaks? If the lawyer, it is true he has but little communication with the players; if the poet, the players have but little communication with him; for it is not long ago, he said to somebody, "By G----, my lord, those Tory rogues will act none of my plays." Well, but the accusation,--that this play was once written by another, and then it was called the "Parisian Massacre." Such a play I have heard indeed was written; but I never saw it[36]. Whether this be any of it or no, I can say no more than for my own part of it. But pray, who denies the unparalleled villainy of the papists in that bloody massacre? I have enquired, why it was not acted, and heard it was stopt by the interposition of an ambassador, who was willing to save the credit of his country, and not to have the memory of an action so barbarous revived; but that I tempted my friend to alter it, is a notorious whiggism, to save the broader word. The "Sicilian Vespers" I have had plotted by me above these seven years: the story of it I found under borrowed names in Giraldo Cinthio; but the rape in my tragedy of "Amboyna" was so like it, that I forbore the writing. But what had this to do with protestants? For the massacrers and the massacred were all papists. But it is observable, they say, that "though the massacre could not be acted, as it was first written against papists, yet when it was turned upon protestants, it found reception." Now all is come out; the scandal of the story turns at last upon the government: that patronizes popish plays, and forbids protestant[37]. Ours is to be a popish play; why? Because it exposes the villainy of sectaries and rebels. Prove them first to be protestants, and see what you will get by it when you have done. Your party are certainly the men whom the play attacks, and so far I will help you; the designs and actions, represented in the play, are such as you have copied from the League; for though you have wickedness enough, yet you wanted the wit to make a new contrivance. But for shame, while you are carrying on such palpable villainy, do not assume the name of protestants. You will tell us, you are friends to the government, and the king's best subjects; but all the while you are aspersing both it and him. Who shall be judges, whether you are friends or not? The government or you? Have not all rebels always sung the same song? Was ever thief or murderer fool enough to plead guilty? For your love and loyalty to the king, they, who mean him best among you, are no better subjects than Duke Trinculo; they would be content he should be viceroy, so they may be viceroys over him[38]. The next accusation is particular to me,--"that I, the said Bayes, would falsely and feloniously have robbed Nat. Lee of his share in the representation of OEdipus." Now I am culprit; I writ the first and third acts of OEdipus, and drew the scenery of the whole play: whenever I have owned a farther proportion, let my accusers speak: this was meant mischievously, to set us two at variance. Who is the old serpent and Satan now? When my friends help my barren fancy, I am thankful for it: I do not use to receive assistance, and afterwards ungratefully disown it. Not long after, "exemplary punishment" is due to me for this most "devilish parallel." It is a devilish one indeed; but who can help it? If I draw devils like one another, the fault is in themselves for being so: I neither made their horns nor claws, nor cloven feet. I know not what I should have done, unless I had drawn the devil a handsome proper gentleman, like the painter in the fable, to have made a friend of him[39]; but I ought to be exemplarily punished for it: when the devil gets uppermost, I shall expect it. "In the mean time, let magistrates (that respect their oaths and office)"--which words, you see, are put into a parenthesis, as if (God help us) we had none such now,--let them put the law in execution against lewd scribblers; the mark will be too fair upon a pillory, for a turnip or a rotten egg to miss it. But, for my part, I have not malice enough to wish him so much harm,--not so much as to have a hair of his head perish, much less that one whole side of it should be dismantled. I am no informer, who writ such a song, or such a libel; if the dulness betrays him not, he is safe for me. And may the same dulness preserve him ever from public justice; it is a sufficient thick mud-wall betwixt him and law; it is his guardian angel, that protects him from punishment, because, in spite of him, he cannot deserve it. It is that which preserves him innocent when he means most mischief, and makes him a saint when he intends to be a devil. He can never offend enough, to need the mercy of government, for it is beholden to him, that he writes against it; and he never offers at a satire, but he converts his readers to a contrary opinion. Some of the succeeding paragraphs are intended for very Ciceronian: there the lawyer flourishes in the pulpit, and the poet stands in socks among the crowd to hear him. Now for narration, resolution, calumniation, aggravation, and the whole artillery of tropes and figures, to defend the proceedings at Guild-hall. The most minute circumstances of the elections are described so lively, that a man, who had not heard he was there in a livery-gown, might suspect there was a _quorum pars magna fui_ in the case; and multitudes of electors, just as well qualified as himself, might give their party the greater number: but throw back their gilt shillings, which were told for guineas, and their true sum was considerably less. Well, there was no rebellion at this time; therefore, says my adversary, there was no parallel. It is true there was no rebellion; but who ever told him that I intended this parallel so far? if the likeness had been throughout, I may guess, by their good will to me, that I had never lived to write it. But, to show his mistake, which I believe wilful, the play was wholly written a month or two before the last election of the sheriffs. Yet it seems there was some kind of prophecy in the case; and, till the faction gets clear of a riot, a part of the comparison will hold even there; yet, if he pleases to remember, there has been a king of England forced by the inhabitants from his imperial town. It is true, the son has had better fortune than the father; but the reason is, that he has now a stronger party in the city than his enemies; the government of it is secured in loyal and prudent hands, and the party is too weak to push their designs farther. "They rescued not their beloved sheriffs at a time (he tells you) when they had a most important use of them." What the importancy of the occasion was, I will not search: it is well if their own consciences will acquit them. But let them be never so much beloved, their adherents knew it was a lawful authority that sent them to the Tower; and an authority which, to their sorrow, they were not able to resist: so that, if four men guarded them without disturbance, and, to the contempt of their strength, at broad noon-day and at full exchange-time, it was no more their honesty to stand looking on with their hands in their pockets, than it is of a small band of robbers to let a caravan go by, which is too strong for them to assault. After this, I am called, after the old rate, loose and infamous scribbler; and it is well I escape so cheap. Bear your good fortune moderately, Mr Poet; for, as loose and infamous as I am, if I had written for your party, your pension would have been cut off as useless. But they must take up with Settle, and such as they can get: Bartholomew-fair writers[40], and Bartholemew-close printers; there is a famine of wit amongst them, they are forced to give unconscionable rates, and, after all, to have only carrion for their money. Then, I am "an ignorant fellow for not knowing there were no juries in Paris." I do not remember to have written any such thing; but whoever did, I am confident it was not his ignorance. Perhaps he had a mind to bring the case a little nearer home: If they had not juries in Paris, we had them from the Normans, who were Frenchmen; and, as you managed them, we had as good have had none in London. Let it satisfy you we have them now; and some of your loose and infamous scribblers may come to understand it a little better. The next is, the justification of a noble peer deceased; the case is known, and I have no quarrel to his memory: let it sleep; he is now before another judge. Immediately after, I am said to have intended an "abuse to the House of Commons;" which is called by our authors "the most august assembly of Europe." They are to prove I have abused that House; but it is manifest they have lessened the House of Lords, by owning the Commons to be the "more august assembly."--"It is an House chosen (they say) by every protestant who has a considerable inheritance in England;" which word _considerable_ signifies forty shillings _per annum_ of free land. For the interest of the loyal party, so much under-valued by our authors, they have long ago confessed in print, that the nobility and gentry have disowned them; and the yeomanry have at last considered, _queis haec consevimus arva_? They have had enough of unlawful and arbitrary power; and know what an august assembly they had once without a King and House of Peers. But now they have me in a burning scent, and run after me full cry: "Was ever such licence connived at, in an impious libeller and scribbler, that the succession, so solemn a matter, that is not fit to be debated of but in parliament, should be profaned so far as to be played with on the stage?" Hold a little, gentlemen, hold a little; (as one of your fellow citizens says in "The Duke of Guise,") is it so unlawful for me to argue for the succession in the right line upon the stage; and is it so very lawful for Mr Hunt, and the scribblers of your party, to oppose it in their libels off the stage? Is it so sacred, that a parliament only is suffered to debate it, and dare you run it down both in your discourses, and pamphlets out of parliament? In conscience, what can you urge against me, which I cannot return an hundred times heavier on you? And by the way, you tell me, that to affirm the contrary to this, is a _praemunire_ against the statute of the 13th of Elizabeth. If such _praemunire_ be, pray, answer me, who has most incurred it? In the mean time, do me the favour to look into the statute-book, and see if you can find the statute; you know yourselves, or you have been told it, that this statute is virtually repealed, by that of the 1st of king James, acknowledging his immediate lawful and undoubted right to this imperial crown, as the next lineal heir; those last words are an implicit anti-declaration to the statute in queen Elizabeth, which, for that reason, is now omitted in our books. The lawful authority of an House of Commons I acknowledge; but without fear and trembling, as my Reflectors would have it. For why should I fear my representatives? they are summoned to consult about the public good, and not to frighten those who chose them. It is for you to tremble, who libel the supreme authority of the nation. But we knavish coxcombs and villains are to know, say my authors, that "a vote is the opinion of that House." Lord help our understandings, that know not this without their telling! What Englishman, do you think, does not honour his representatives, and wish a parliament void of heat and animosities, to secure the quiet of the nation? You cite his majesty's declaration against those that dare trifle with parliaments; a declaration, by the way, which you endeavoured not to have read publicly in churches, with a threatening to those that did it. "But we still declare (says his majesty) that no irregularities of parliament shall make us out of love with them." Are not you unfortunate quoters? why now should you rub up the remembrance of those irregularities mentioned in that declaration, which caused, as the king informs us, its dissolution? The next paragraph is already answered; it is only a clumsy commendation of the Duke of Monmouth, copied after Mr Hunt, and a proof that he is unlike the Duke of Guise. After having done my drudgery for me, and having most officiously proved, that the English duke is no parallel for the French, which I am sure he is not, they are next to do their own business, which is, that I meant a parallel betwixt Henry III. and our most gracious sovereign. But, as fallacies are always couched in general propositions, they plead the whole course of the drama, which, they say, seems to insinuate my intentions. One may see to what a miserable shift they are driven, when, for want of any one instance, to which I challenge them, they have only to allege, that the play SEEMS to insinuate it. I answer, it does not seem; which is a bare negative to a bare affirmative; and then we are just where we were before. Fat Falstaff was never set harder by the Prince for a reason, when he answered, "that, if reasons grew as thick as blackberries, he would not give one." Well, after long pumping, lest the lie should appear quite barefaced, they have found I said, that, at king Henry's birth, there shone a regal star; so there did at king Charles the Second's; therefore I have made a parallel betwixt Henry III. and Charles II. A very concluding syllogism, if I should answer it no farther. Now, let us look upon the play; the words are in the fourth act. The conjurer there is asking his devil, "what fortune attended his master, the Guise, and what the king?" The familiar answers concerning the king,--"He cannot be deposed, he may be killed; a violent fate attends him; but, at his birth, there shone a regal star."--_Conj._ "My master had a stronger."--_Devil._ "No, not a stronger, but more popular." Let the whole scene, (which is one of the best in the tragedy, though murdered in the acting) be read together, and it will be as clear as day light, that the Devil gave an astrological account of the French king's _horoscope_; that the regal star, then culminating, was the sun in the tenth house, or mid-heaven; which, _caeteris paribus,_ is a regal nativity in that art. The rest of the scene confirms what I have said; for the Devil has taken the position of the heavens, or scheme of the world, at the point of the sun's entrance into Aries. I dispute not here the truth or lawfulness of that art; but it is usual with poets, especially the Italians, to mix astrology in their poems. Chaucer, amongst us, is frequent in it: but this revolution particularly I have taken out of Luigi Pulci; and there is one almost the same in Boiardo's "_Orlando Inamorato._" Now, if these poets knew, that a star were to appear at our king's birth, they were better prophets than Nostradamus, who has told us nothing of it. Yet this they say "is treason with a witness," and one of the crimes for which they condemned me to be hanged, drawn and quartered. I find they do not believe me to be one of their party at the bottom, by their charitable wishes to me; and am proud enough to think, I have done them some little mischief, because they are so desirous to be rid of me. But if Jack Ketch must needs have the handling of us poets, let him begin first where he may take the deepest say[41]; let me be hanged, but in my turn; for I am sure I am neither the fattest scribbler, nor the worst; I'll be judged by their own party. But, for all our comforts, the days of hanging are a little out of date; and I hope there will be no more treason with a witness or witnesses; for now there is no more to be got by swearing, and the market is overstocked besides. But are you in earnest when you say, I have made Henry III. "fearful, weak, bloody, perfidious, hypocritical, and fawning, in the play?" I am sure an unbiassed reader will find a more favourable image of him in the tragedy, whatever he was out of it. You would not have told a lie so shameless, but that you were resolved to second it with a worse--that I made a parallel of that prince. And now it comes to my turn, pray let me ask you,--why you spend three pages and a half in heaping up all the villainies, true or false, which you can rake together, to blast his memory? Why is all this pains taken to expose the person of king Henry III.? Are you leaguers, or covenanters, or associators? What has the poor dead man done to nettle you? Were his rebels your friends or your relations? Were your Norman ancestors of any of those families, which were conspirators in the play? I smell a rat in this business; Henry III. is not taken thus to task for nothing. Let me tell you, this is little better than an implicit confession of the parallel I intended. This gentleman of Valois sticks in your stomachs; and, though I do not defend his proceedings in the States, any otherwise than by the inevitable necessity which caused them, yet acknowledging his crime does not extenuate their guilt that forced him to it. It was bad on both sides, but the revenge was not so wicked as the treason; for it was a voluntary act of theirs, and a compelled one of his. The short on't is, he took a violent course to cut up the Covenant by the roots; and there is your quarrel to him. Now for a long-winded panegyric of the king of Navarre; and here I am sure they are in earnest, when they take such overpains to prove there is no likeness where they say I intended it. The hero, at whom their malice is levelled, does but laugh at it, I believe; and, amongst the other virtues of that predecessor, wants neither his justice nor his clemency, to forgive all the heads of the League, as fast as they submit. As for obliging them, (which our author would fain hook in for an ingredient) let them be satisfied, that no more enemies are to be bought off with places and preferments; the trial which has been made in two kings reigns, will warn the family from so fruitless and dangerous an expedient. The rest is already answered, in what I have said to Mr Hunt; but I thank them, by the way, for their instance of the fellow whom the king of Navarre had pardoned and done good to, "yet he would not love him;" for that story reaches home somewhere. I must make haste to get out of hearing from this Billingsgate oratory; and, indeed, to make an end with these authors, except I could call rogue and rascal as fast as they. Let us examine the little reason they produce concerning the Exclusion. "Did the pope, the clergy, the nobility and commonalty of France think it reasonable to exclude a prince for professing a different religion; and will the papists be angry if the protestants be of the same opinion? No, sure, they cannot have the impudence." First, here is the difference of religion taken for granted, which was never proved on one side, though in the king of Navarre it was openly professed. Then the pope, and the three estates of France had no power to alter the succession, neither did the king in being consent to it: or afterwards, did the greater part of the nobility, clergy, and gentry adhere to the Exclusion, but maintained the lawful king successfully against it; as we are bound to do in England, by the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, made for the benefit of our kings, and their successors? the objections concerning which oath are fully answered by Dr Hicks, in his preface to Jovian; and thither I refer the reader. They tell us, that what it concerns protestants to do in that case, enough has been heard by us in parliament debates. I answer, that debates coming not by an act to any issue, conclude, that there is nothing to be done against a law established, and fundamental of the monarchy. They dare not infer a right of taking up arms, by virtue of a debate or vote, and yet they tacitly insinuate this. I ask them, what it does concern protestants to do in this case, and whether they mean anything by that expression? They have hampered themselves before they were aware; for they proceed in the very next lines to tell us, they believe "the crown of England being hereditary, the next in blood have an undoubted right to succeed, unless God make them, or they make themselves uncapable of reigning." So that according to them, if either of those two impediments shall happen, then it concerns the protestants of England to do that something, which, if they had spoken out, had been direct treason. Here is fine legerdemain amongst them: they have acknowledged a vote to be no more than the opinion of an house, and yet from a debate, which was abortive before it quickened into a vote, they argue after the old song, "that there is something more to be done, which you cannot chuse but guess." In the next place, there is no such thing as incapacity to be supposed, in the immediate successor of the crown. That is, the rightful heir cannot be made uncapable on any account whatsoever to succeed. It may please God, that he may be _inhabilis_, or _inidoneus ad gerendam rempublicam_,--unfit or unable to govern the kingdom; but this is no impediment to his right of reigning: he cannot either be excluded or deposed for such imperfection; for the laws which have provided for private men in this case, have also made provision for the sovereign, and for the public; and the council of state, or the next of blood, is to administer the kingdom for him. Charles the Sixth of France, (for I think we have no English examples which will reach it) forfeited not his kingdom by his lunacy, though a victorious king of England was then knocking at his gates; but all things under his name, and by his authority were managed. The case is the same, betwixt a king _non compos mentis_, and one who is _nondum compos mentis_; a distracted or an infant-king. Then the people cannot incapacitate the king, because he derives not his right from them, but from God only; neither can any action, much less opinion of a sovereign, render him uncapable, for the same reason; excepting only a voluntary resignation to his immediate heir, as in the case of Charles the Fifth: for that of our Richard the Second was invalid, because forced, and not made to the next successor. Neither does it follow, as our authors urge, that an unalterable succession supposes England to be the king's estate, and the people his goods and chattels on it. For the preservation of his right destroys not our propriety, but maintains us in it. He has tied himself by law, not to invade our possessions; and we have obliged ourselves as subjects to him, and all his lawful successors: by which irrevocable act of ours, both for ourselves and our posterity, we can no more exclude the successor, than we can depose the present king. The estate of England is indeed the king's; and I may safely grant their supposition, as to the government of England: but it follows not, that the people are his goods and chattels on it; for then he might sell, alienate, or destroy them as he pleased: from all which he has tied himself by the liberties and privileges which he has granted us by laws. There is little else material in this pamphlet: for to say, "I would insinuate into the king a hatred to his capital city," is to say, he should hate his best friends, the last, and the present Lord Mayor, our two honourable Sheriffs, the Court of Aldermen, the worthy and loyal Mr Common Serjeant, with the rest of the officers, who are generally well affected and who have kept out their factious members from its government. To say, I would insinuate a scorn of authority in the city, is, in effect, to grant the parallel in the play: for the authority of tumults and seditions is only scorned in it,--an authority which they derived not from the crown, but exercised against it. And for them to confess I exposed this, is to confess, that London was like Paris. They conclude with a prayer to Almighty God, in which I therefore believe, the poet did not club. To libel the king through all the pamphlet, and to pray for him in the conclusion, is an action of more prudence in them than of piety. Perhaps they might hope to be forgiven, as one of their predecessors was by king James; who, after he had railed at him abundantly, ended his lampoon with these two verses: Now God preserve our king, queen, prince and peers, And grant the author long may wear his ears[42]. To take a short review of the whole.--It is manifest, that there is no such parallel in the play, as the faction have pretended; that the story would not bear one where they have placed it; and that I could not reasonably intend one, so contrary to the nature of the play, and so repugnant to the principles of the loyal party. On the other side, it is clear that the principles and practices of the public enemies, have both formerly resembled those of the League, and continue to hold the same resemblance. It appears by the outcry of the party before the play was acted, that they dreaded and foresaw the bringing of the faction upon the stage: and by the hasty printing of Mr Hunt's libel, and the Reflections, before the tragedy was published, that they were infinitely concerned to prevent any farther operation of it. It appears from the general consent of the audiences, that their party were known to be represented; and themselves owned openly, by their hissings, that they were incensed at it, as an object which they could not bear. It is evident by their endeavours to shift off this parallel from their side, that their principles are too shameful to be maintained. It is notorious, that they, and they only, have made the parallel betwixt the Duke of Guise and the Duke of Monmouth, and that in revenge for the manifest likeness they find in the parties themselves, they have carried up the parallel to the heads of the parties, where there is no resemblance at all; under which colour, while they pretend to advert upon one libel, they set up another. For what resemblance could they suggest betwixt two persons so unlike in their descent, the qualities of their minds, and the disparity of their warlike actions, if they grant not, that there is a faction here, which is like that other which was in France? so that if they do not first acknowledge one common cause, there is no foundation for a parallel. The dilemma therefore lies strong upon them; and let them avoid it if they can,--that either they must avow the wickedness of their designs, or disown the likeness of those two persons. I do further charge those audacious authors, that they themselves have made the parallel which they call mine, and that under the covert of this parallel they have odiously compared our present king with king Henry the Third; and farther, that they have forced this parallel expressly to wound His Majesty in the comparison: for, since there is a parallel (as they would have it) it must be either theirs or mine. I have proved that it cannot possibly be mine: and in so doing, that it must be theirs by consequence. Under this shadow all the vices of the French king are charged by those libellers (by a side-wind) upon ours; and it is indeed the bottom of their design to make the king cheap, his royal brother odious, and to alter the course of the succession. Now, after the malice of this sputtering triumvirate (Mr Hunt, and the two Reflectors), against the person and dignity of the king, and against all that endeavour to serve him (which makes their hatred to his cause apparent), the very charging of our play to be a libel, and such a parallel as these ignoramuses would render it, is almost as great an affront to His Majesty, as the libellous picture itself, by which they have exposed him to his subjects. For it is no longer our parallel, but the king's, by whose order it was acted, without any shuffling or importunity from the poets. The tragedy (cried the faction) is a libel against such and such illustrious persons. Upon this the play was stopt, examined, acquitted, and ordered to be brought upon the stage: not one stroke in it of a resemblance, to answer the scope and intent of the complaint. There were some features, indeed, that the illustrious Mr Hunt and his brace of beagles (the Reflectors) might see resembling theirs; and no other parallel either found or meant, but betwixt the French leaguers and ours: and so far the agreement held from point to point, as true as a couple of tallies. But when neither the king, nor my lord chamberlain, with other honourable persons of eminent faith, integrity, and understanding, upon a strict perusal of the papers, could find one syllable to countenance the calumny; up starts the defender of the charter, &c. opens his mouth, and says, "What do ye talk of the king? he's abused, he's imposed upon. Is my lord chamberlain, and the scrutineers that succeed him, to tell us, when the king and the duke of York are abused?" What says my lord chief baron of Ireland to the business? What says the livery-man templer? What says Og the king of Basan to it? "We are men that stand up for the king's supremacy in all causes, and over all persons, as well ecclesiastical as civil, next and immediately under God and the people. We are for easing His Royal Highness of his title to the crown, and the cares that attend any such prospect; and we shall see the king and the Royal Family paralleled at this rate, and not reflect upon it?" But to draw to an end. Upon the laying of matters fairly together, what a king have these balderdash scribblers given us, under the resemblance of Henry the Third! How scandalous a character again, of His Majesty, in telling the world that he is libelled, and affronted to his face, told on't, pointed to it; and yet neither he, nor those about him, can be brought to see or understand it. There needs no more to expound the meaning of these people, than to compare them with themselves: when it will evidently appear, that their lives and conversations, their writings and their practices, do all take the same bias; and when they dare not any longer revile His Majesty or his government point blank, they have an intention to play the libellers in masquerade, and do the same thing in a way of mystery and parable. This is truly the case of the pretended parallel. They lay their heads together, and compose the lewdest character of a prince that can be imagined, and then exhibit that monster to the people, as the picture of the king in the "Duke of Guise." So that the libel passes for current in the multitude, whoever was the author of it; and it will be but common justice to give the devil his due. But the truth is, their contrivances are now so manifest, that their party moulders both in town and country; for I will not suspect that there are any of them left in court. Deluded well-meaners come over out of honesty, and small offenders out of common discretion or fear. None will shortly remain with them, but men of desperate fortunes or enthusiasts: those who dare not ask pardon, because they have transgressed beyond it, and those who gain by confusion, as thieves do by fires: to whom forgiveness were as vain, as a reprieve to condemned beggars; who must hang without it, or starve with it. Footnotes: 1. As the whole passage from Davila is subjoined to the text in the play, the reader may easily satisfy himself of the accuracy of what is here stated. But, although the scene may have been written in 1661, we must be allowed to believe, that its extreme resemblance to the late events occasioned its being revived and re-presented in 1682. 2. The poem, alluded to, was probably the _Religio Laici_, first published in November l682. 3. Dryden and Shadwell had once been friends. In the preface to "The Humourists," acted, according to Mr Malone, in 1676, Shadwell thus mentions his great contemporary: "And here I must make a little digression, and take liberty to dissent from my particular friend, for whom I have a very great respect, and whose writings I extremely admire; and, though I will not say, his is the best way of writing, yet, I am sure his manner of writing is much the best that ever was. And I may say of him, as was said of a celebrated poet, _Cui unquam poetarum magis proprium fuit subito astro incalescere? Quis ubi incaluit, fortius et faeclicius debacchatur_? His verse is smoother and deeper, his thoughts more quick and surprising, his raptures more mettled and higher, and he has more of that in his writings, which Plato calls _sophrona manian_ than any other heroic poet. And those who shall go about to imitate him, will be found to flutter and make a noise, but never to rise." Such a compliment, from a rival dramatist, could only have been extracted by previous good offices and kindly countenance. Accordingly we find, that Dryden, in 1678-9, wrote a prologue to Shadwell's play, of "The True Widow." 4. "The Female Prelate, or Pope Joan," is a bombast, silly performance of Elkanah Settle; the catastrophe of which consists in the accouchement of the Pope in the streets of Rome. The aid necessary in the conclusion of an English tragedy, (usually loudly called for, but never brought) is of a surgical nature; but here Lucina was the deity to be implored, and the midwife's assistance most requisite. Shadwell's comedy of "The Lancashire Witches," was popular for many years after the Revolution, chiefly, because the papists were reflected upon in the character of Teague O'Divelly, an Irish Priest, the high-church clergy ridiculed under that of Smerk, and the whole Tory faction generally abused through the play. It is by no means one of Shadwell's happiest efforts. The introduction of the witches celebrating their satanical sabbath on the stage, besides that the scene is very poorly and lamely written, is at variance with the author's sentiments, as delivered through Sir Edward Hartfort, "a worthy, hospitable, true English gentleman, of good understanding and honest principles," who ridicules the belief in witches at all. A different and totally inconsistent doctrine is thus to be collected from the action of the piece and the sentiments expressed by those, whose sentiments are alone marked as worthy of being attended to. This obvious fault, with many others, is pointed out in a criticism on the "Lancashire Witches," published in the Spectator. The paper is said to have been written by Hughes, but considerably softened by Addison. 5. Half-a-crown was then the box price. You visit our plays and merit the stocks, For paying half-crowns of brass to our box; Nay, often you swear when places are shewn ye, That your hearing is thick, And so by a love trick, You pass through our scenes up to the balcony. _Epilogue to_ "The Man's the Master." The farce, alluded to, seems to have been "The Lancashire Witches." See Shadwell's account of the reception of that piece, from which it appears, that the charge of forming a party in the theatre was a subject of mutual reproach betwixt the dramatists of the contending parties. 6. This single remark is amply sufficient to exculpate Dryden from having intended any general parallel between Monmouth and the Duke of Guise. To have produced such a parallel, it would have been necessary to unite, in one individual, the daring political courage of Shaftesbury, his capacity of seizing the means to attain his object, and his unprincipled carelessness of their nature, with the fine person, chivalrous gallantry, military fame, and courteous manners of the Duke of Monmouth. Had these talents, as they were employed in the same cause, been vested in the same person, the Duke of Guise must have yielded the palm. The partial resemblance, in one point of their conduct, is stated by our poet, not to have been introduced as an _intended_ likeness, betwixt the Duke of Guise, and the Protestant Duke. We may observe, in the words of Bertran, The dial spoke not--but it made shrewd signs. _Spanish Friar._ 7. Alluding to a book, called "The Parallel," published by J. Northleigh L.L.B. the same who afterwards wrote "the Triumph of the Monarchy," and was honoured by a copy of verses from our author. 8. "Julian the Apostate, with a short account of his life, and a parallel betwixt Popery and Paganism," was a treatise, written by the Rev. Samuel Johnson, chaplain to Lord Russell, for the purpose of forwarding the bill of exclusion, by shewing the consequences to Christianity of a Pagan Emperor attaining the throne. It would seem, that one of the sheriffs had mistaken so grossly, as to talk of Julian the Apostle; or, more probably, such a blunder was circulated as true, by some tory wit. Wood surmises, that Hunt had some share in composing Julian. _Ath. Ox._ II. p. 729.] 9. This probably alludes to L'Estrange, who answered Hunt in the "Lawyer Outlawed." 10. "Curse ye Meroz," was a text much in vogue among the fanatic preachers in the civil wars. It was preached upon in Guildhall, before the Lord Mayor, 9th May, 1630, by Edmund Hickeringill, rector of All Saints, in Colchester: There's Colchester Hickeringil, the fanatic's delight, Who Gregory Greybeard and Meroz did write, You may see who are saints in a pharisee's sight. _The Assembly of the Moderate Divines, stanza 18._ Gregory Greybeard was probably some ballad, alluding to the execution of Charles I, who was beheaded by a person disguised by a visor and greybeard. The name of the common hangman, at that time, was Gregory. 11. Jaques Clement, a Jacobin Monk, stabbed Henry III. on the 1st of August, 1589. He expired the following day. 12. "All crowned heads by poetical right are heroes. This character is a flower, a prerogative so certain, so inseparably annexed to the crown as by no poet, no parliament of poets, ever to be invaded." _Rymer's Remarks on the Tragedies of the last age_, p. 6l. This critical dogma, although here and else-where honoured by our author's sanction, fell into disuse with the doctrines of passive obedience, and indefeasible right. 13. The Earl of Arlington, Lord Chamberlain. 14. Charles II. and his brother the Duke of York, were grandchildren of Henry IV. of France, by their mother Henrietta Maria. 15. A very poor imitation of Moliere's "Festin de Pierre;" with the story of which the admirers of mute-shew have since been entertained, under the title of Don Juan. In the preface, Shadwell, after railing abundantly at Settle, is at the pains to assure us, there is no act in the piece which cost him above four days writing, and the last two (the play-house having great occasion for a play) were both written in four days. The Libertine, and his companions, travel by sea and land over the whole kingdom of Spain. 16. See the full passage prefixed to the Vindication. 17. The club alluded to seems to be the same which originally met at the King's-Head tavern, of which North gives the following lively account. "The gentlemen of that worthy society held their evening session continually at the King's-Head tavern, over against the Inner Temple gate. But upon occasion of the signal of a green ribbon, agreed to be worn in their hats in the days of secret engagements, like the coats of arms of valiant knights of old, whereby all the warriors of the society might be distinguished, and not mistake friends for enemies, they were called also the Green Ribbon Club. Their seat was in a sort of carrefour, at Chancery-Lane end, a centre of business and company, most proper for such anglers of fools. The house was double-balconied in front, as may be yet seen, for the clubsters to issue forth, in fresco, with hats and no peruques, pipes in their mouths, merry faces, and diluted throats, for vocal encouragement of the canaglia below, at bonfires, on usual and unusual occasions. They admitted all strangers that were confidingly introduced; for, it was a main end of their institution to make proselytes, especially of the raw estated youths newly come to town. This copious society were, to the faction in and about London, a sort of executive power, and by correspondence all over England. The resolves of the more retired councils and ministry of the faction, were brought in here, and orally insinuated to the company, whether it were lies, defamations, commendations, projects, &c. and so, like water diffused, spread over all the town; whereby that which was digested at the club over night, was, like nourishment, at every assembly, male and female, the next day. And thus the younglings tasted of political administration, and took themselves for notable counsellors." _Examen_, p. 572. The place of meeting is altered by Dryden, from the King's-Head, to the Devil-Tavern, either because he thought the name more appropriate, or wished slightly to disguise what he plainly insinuated. 18. Our author never omits an opportunity of twitting Hunt with his expected preferment of lord chief baron of exchequer in Ireland; L'Estrange, whose ready pen was often drawn for the court, answered Hunt's defence of the charter by a pamphlet entitled "The Lawyer Outlawed," in which he fails not to twit his antagonist with the same disappointment. 19. The foul practice of taking away lives by false witness, casts an indelible disgrace on this period. Oates, Dugdale, and Turberville, were the perjured evidences of the Popish plot. To meet them with equal arms, counter-plots were sworn against Shaftesbury and others, by Haines, Macnamara, and other Irishmen. But the true Protestant juries would only swallow the perjuries which made for their own opinions; nay, although they believed Dugdale, when he zealously forswore himself for the cause of the Protestant faith, they refused him credit when he bore false witness for the crown. "Thus," says Hume, "the two parties, actuated by mutual rage, but cooped up within the narrow limits of the law, levelled with poisoned daggers the most deadly blows against each other's breast, and buried in their factious divisions all regard to truth, honour, and humanity."-- 20. In the Dramatis Personae to Shadwell's play of Epsom-Wells, we have Rains, Bevil, Woodly, described as "men of wit and pleasure." 21. Dryden had already distinguished Shadwell and Settle by those names, which were destined to consign the poor wights to a painful immortality, in the second part of Absalom and Achitophel, published in 1682. 22. See note on p. 222. Vol. VI. describing this famous procession. 23. This passage, in Hunt's defence of the charter, obviously alludes to the Duke of York, whom he elsewhere treats with little ceremony, and to the king, whose affection for his brother was not without a mixture of fear, inspired by his more stubborn and resolved temper. 24. William Viscount Stafford, the last who suffered for the Popish plot, was tried and executed in 1680. It appears, that his life was foully sworn away by Dugdale and Turberville. The manly and patient deportment of the noble sufferer went far to remove the woful delusion which then pervaded the people. It would seem that Hunt had acted as his solicitor. 25. A quip at his corpulent adversary Shadwell. 26. The infamous Titus Oates pretended, amongst other more abominable falsehoods, to have taken a doctor's degree at Salamanca. In 1679, there was an attempt to bring him to trial for unnatural practices, but the grand jury threw out the bill. These were frequent subjects of reproach among the tory authors. In the Luttrel Collection, there is "An Address from Salamanca to her unknown offspring Dr T.O. concerning the present state of affairs in England." Also a coarse ballad, entitled, "The Venison Doctor, with his brace of Alderman Stags;" Showing how a Doctor had defiled Two aldermen, and got them both with child, Who longed for venison, but were beguiled. 27. Our author has elsewhere expressed, in the same terms, his contempt for the satire of "The Rehearsal." "I answered not the Rehearsal, because I knew the author sat to himself when he drew the picture, and was the very Bayes of his own farce." _Dedication to Juvenal._--The same idea occurs in a copy of verses on the Duke of Buckingham sometimes ascribed to Dryden: But when his poet, John Bayes, did appear, 'Twas known to more than one-half that were there, That the great'st part was his Grace's character; For he many years plagued his friends for their crimes, Repeating his verses in other men's rhymes, To the very same person ten thousand times. _State Poems_, Vol. II, p. 216. 28. Besides those who were alarmed for civil liberty, and those who dreaded encroachment on their religion, the whig party, like every one which promises to effect a great political change, was embraced by many equally careless of the one motive or the other; but who hoped to indulge their licentious passions, repair their broken fortunes, or gratify their inordinate ambition amidst a revolutionary convulsion. 29. The motto to Hunt's pamphlet. 30. _Tantivi_ was a cant phrase for furious tories and high-flyers. In one of College's unlucky strokes of humour, he had invented a print called _Mac Ninny_, in which the Duke of York was represented half-jesuit half-devil; and a parcel of tories, mounted on the church of England, were driving it at full gallop, _tantivy_, to Rome. Hickeringill's poem, called "The Mushroom," written against our author's "Hind and Panther," is prefaced by an epistle to the tories and tantivies. 31. This passage is inaccurately quoted. Mr Hunt wrote, "Such monsters as Theseus and Hercules _are_, renowned throughout all ages for destroying." The learned gentleman obviously meant that Dryden's heroes (whom he accounted tyrants) resembled not the demi-gods, but the monsters whom they destroyed. But the comma is so unhappily placed after _are_, as to leave the sense capable of the malicious interpretation which Dryden has put upon it. 32. Shadwell, as he resembled Ben Jonson in extreme corpulence, and proposed him for the model of dramatic writing, seems to have affected the coarse and inelegant debauchery of his prototype. He lived chiefly in taverns, was a gross sensualist in his habits, and brutal in his conversation. His fine gentlemen all partake of their parent's grossness and vulgarity; they usually open their dialogue, by complaining of the effects of last night's debauch. He is probably the only author, who ever chose for his heroes a set of riotous bloods, or _scowerers_, as they were then termed, and expected the public should sympathise in their brutal orgies. True it is, that the heroes are _whig_ scowerers; and, whilst breaking windows, stabbing watchmen, and beating passengers, do not fail to express a due zeal for the Protestant religion, and the liberty of the subject. Much of the interest also turns, it must be allowed, upon the Protestant scowerers aforesaid baffling and beating, without the least provocation, a set of inferior scowerers, who were Jacobites at least, if not Papists. Shadwell is thus described in the "Sessions of the Poets:" Next into the crowd Tom Shadwell does wallow, And swears by his guts, his paunch, and his tallow, 'Tis he that alone best pleases the age, Himself and his wife have supported the stage. Apollo, well pleased with so bonny a lad, To oblige him, he told him he should be huge glad, Had he half so much wit as he fancied he had. However, to please so jovial a wit, And to keep him in humour, Apollo thought fit To bid him drink on, and keep his old trick Of railing at poets-- Those, who consult the full passage, will see good reason to think Dryden's censure on Shadwell's brutality by no means too severe. 33. In 1444, Ladislaus king of Hungary, in breach of a treaty solemnly sworn upon the gospel, invaded Bulgaria, at the instigation of the Cardinal Legate. He was slain, and his army totally routed in the bloody battle of Warna, where ten thousand Christians fell before the janissaries of Amurath II. It is said, that while the battle remained undecided, the sultan displayed the solemn treaty, and invoked the God of truth, and the blessed name of Jesus, to revenge the impious infidelity of the Hungarian. This battle would have laid Hungary under the Turkish yoke, had it not been for the exploits of John Corvinus Huniades, the white knight of Walachia, and the more dubious prowess of the famous John Castriot, king of Epirus. 34. In the preface to which the author alleges, that Hunt contributed no small share towards the composition of "Julian the Apostate." See WOOD'S _Ath. Oxon._ v. ii. p. 729. 35. The song against the bishops is probably a ballad, upon their share in throwing out the bill of exclusion, beginning thus: The grave house of Commons, by hook, or by crook, Resolved to root out both the pope and the duke; Let them vote, let them move, let them do what they will; The bishops, the bishops, have thrown out the bill. It concludes with the following stanza: The best of expedients, the law can propose, Our church to preserve, and to quiet our foes, Is not to let lawn sleeves our parliament fill, But throw out the bishops, that threw out the bill. _State Poems_, Vol. III. p. 154. The Tunbridge ballad, which our author also ascribes to Shadwell or his assistant, I have not found among the numerous libels of the time. 36. The "Massacre of Paris" appears to have been written by Lee, during the time of the Popish plot, and if then brought out, the subject might have been extravagantly popular. It would appear it was suppressed at the request of the French ambassador. Several speeches, and even a whole scene seem to have been transplanted to the "Duke of Guise," which were afterwards replaced, when the Revolution rendered the "Massacre of Paris," again a popular topic. There were, among others, the description of the meeting of Alva and the queen mother at Bayonne; the sentiments expressed concerning the assassination of Caesar, and especially the whole quarrelling scene between Guise and Grillon, which, in the "Massacre of Paris," passes between Guise and the admiral Chastillon. In the preface to the "Princess of Cleves," which was acted in 1689, Lee gives the following account of the transposition of these passages. "The Duke of Guise, who was notorious for a bolder fault, has wrested two whole scenes from the original, (the Massacre just before mentioned,) which, after the vacation, he will be forced to pay. I was, I confess, through indignation, forced to limb my own child, which time, the true cure for all maladies and injustice, has set together again. The play cost me much pains, the story is true, and, I hope, the object will display treachery in its own colours. But this farce, comedy, tragedy, or mere play, was a revenge for the refusal of the other." This last sentence alludes to the suppression of the "Massacre of Paris," which, according to the author's promise, appeared with all its appurtenances restored in 1690, the year following.] 37. When the days of Whiggish prosperity shone forth, Shadwell did his best to retort upon our poet. In the prologue to "Bury Fair," we find the following lines of exultation, on his having regained possession of the stage: Those wretched poetitos, who got praise, By writing most _confounded loyal plays_, With viler coarser jests, than at Bear-garden, And silly Grub-street songs, worse than Tom Farthing; If any noble patriot did excel, His own and country's rights defending well, These yelping curs were straight 'looed on to bark, On the deserving man to set a mark; Those abject fawning parasites and knaves. Since they were such, would have all others slaves. 'Twas precious _loyalty_, that was thought fit To atone for want of honesty and wit; No wonder common sense was all cried down, And noise and nonsense swaggered through the town; Our author then opprest would have you know it. Was silenced for a non-conformist poet; Now, sirs, since common sence has won the day, Be kind to this as to his last year's play; His friends stood firmly to him, when distressed, He hopes the number is not now decreast. He found esteem from those he valued most; Proud of his friends, he of his foes could boast. 38. "Know then, to prevent the farther shedding of Christian blood, we are all content Ventoso shall be viceroy, upon condition I may be viceroy over him." Tempest, as altered by Dryden, vol. iii. p. 124. 39. The fable alluded to occurs in the _Pia Hilaria_ of Gazaeus, and in Le Grand's _Fabliaux_; it makes the subject of a humorous tale by Mr Robert Southey. 40. Alluding to the well-known catastrophe of poor Settle acting in Bartholomew fair: "Reduced at last to hiss in his own dragon." 41. The _say_, or _assay_, is the first cut made on the stag when he is killed. The hunter begins at the brisket, and draws the knife downwards. The purpose is, to ascertain how fat he is: "At the assay kitle him, that Lends may se Anon Fat or lene whether that he be." _Boke of St Alban's._ The allusion in the text is to the cruel punishment of high treason by quartering. 42. "And so thou shalt for me," said James, when he came to the passage; "thou art a biting knave, but a witty one." * * * * * ALBION AND ALBANIUS: AN OPERA _Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._ VIRG. ALBION AND ALBANIUS. This opera, like the play which precedes it, had an avowed political object. It was intended to celebrate the victory of the crown over its opponents, or, as our author would have expressed it, of loyalty over sedition and insurrection. The events, which followed the Restoration, are rapidly, but obviously and distinctly, traced down to the death of Charles, and the quiet accession of his brother, who, after all the storms which had threatened to blast his prospects, found himself enabled to mount the throne, with ease sufficient to encourage him to the measures which precipitated him from that elevation. The leading incidents of the busy and intriguing reign of Charles II. are successively introduced in the following order. The city of London is discovered occupied by the republicans and fanatics, depicted under the allegorical personages Democracy and Zeal. General Monk, as Archon, charms the factions to sleep, and the Restoration is emblematized by the arrival of Charles, and the Duke of York, under the names of Albion and Albanius. The second act opens with a council of the fiends, where the popish plot is hatched, and Democracy and Zeal are dismissed, to propagate it upon earth, with Oates, the famous witness, in their train. The next entry presents Augusta, or London, stung by a snake, to intimate the revival of the popular faction in the metropolis. Democracy and Zeal, under the disguise of Patriotism and Religion, insinuate themselves into the confidence of the city, and are supposed to foment the parliamentary opposition, which, ending on the bill of exclusion, rendered it necessary, that the Duke of York should leave the kingdom. We have then, in allegorical representation, the internal feuds of the parties, which, from different causes, opposed the crown. The adherents of Monmouth, and the favourers of republican tenets, are represented as disputing with each other, until the latter, by the flight of Shaftesbury, obtains a final ascendancy. In the mean while, Charles, or Albion, has recourse to the advice of Proteus; under which emblem an evil minded whig might suppose Halifax, and the party of Trimmers, to be represented; actuated by whose versatile, and time-serving politics, Charles gave way to each wave, but remained buoyant amid the tempest. The Rye-house plot is then presented in allegory,--an unfit subject for exultation, since the dark intrigues of the interior conspirators were made the instruments of the fall of Sidney and Russell. The return of the Duke of York, with his beautiful princess, and the rejoicings which were supposed to take place, in heaven and earth, upon Charles' attaining the pinnacle of uncontrolled power, was originally the intended termination of the opera; which, as first written, consisted of only one act, introductory to the drama of "King Arthur." But the eye and the ear of Charles were never to be regaled by this flattering representation: he died while the opera was in rehearsal. A slight addition, as the author has himself informed us, adapted the conclusion of his piece to this new and unexpected event. The apotheosis of Albion, and the succession of Albanius to the uncontrouled domination of a willing people, debased by circumstances expressing an unworthy triumph over deceased foes, was substituted as the closing scene. Altered as it was, to suit the full-blown fortune of James, an ominous fatality attended these sugared scenes, which were to present the exulting recapitulation of his difficulties and triumph. While the opera was performing, for the sixth time only, news arrived that Monmouth had landed in the west, the audience dispersed, and the players never attempted to revive a play, which seemed to be of evil augury to the crown. Our author appears to have found it difficult to assign a name for this performance, which was at once to address itself to the eye, the ear, and the understanding. The ballad-opera, since invented, in which part is sung, part acted and spoken, comes nearest to its description. The plot of the piece contains nothing brilliantly ingenious: the deities of Greece and Rome had been long hacknied machines in the masks and operas of the sixteenth century; and it required little invention to paint the duchess of York as Venus, or to represent her husband protected by Neptune, and Charles consulting with Proteus. But though the device be trite, the lyrical diction of the opera is most beautifully sweet and flowing. The reader finds none of these harsh inversions, and awkward constructions, by which ordinary poets are obliged to screw their verses into the fetters of musical time. Notwithstanding the obstacles stated by Dryden himself, every line seems to flow in its natural and most simple order; and where the music required repetition of a line, or a word, the iteration seems to improve the sense and poetical effect. Neither is the piece deficient in the higher requisites of lyric poetry. When music is to be "married to immortal verse," the poet too commonly cares little with how indifferent a yoke-mate he provides her. But Dryden, probably less from a superior degree of care, than from that divine impulse which he could not resist, has hurried along in the full stream of real poetry. The description of the desolation of London, at the opening of the piece, the speech of Augusta, in act second, and many other passages, fully justify this encomium. The music of the piece was entrusted to Louis Grabut, or Grabu, the master of the king's band, whom Charles, French in his politics, his manners, and his taste, preferred to the celebrated Purcell. "Purcell, however," says an admirable judge, "having infinitely more fancy, and, indeed, harmonical resources, than the Frenchified Tuscan, his predecessor, now offered far greater pleasure and amusement to a liberal lover of music, than can be found, not only in the productions of Cambert and Grabu, whom Charles II., and, to flatter his majesty, Dryden, patronised in preference to Purcell, but in all the noisy monotony of the rhapsodist of Quinault."--_Burney's History of Music_, Vol. III. p. 500. It seems to be generally admitted, that the music of "Albion and Albanius" was very indifferent. From the preface, as well as the stage directions, it appears that a vast expence was incurred, in shew, dress, and machinery. Downes informs us, that, owing to the interruption of the run of the piece in the manner already mentioned, the half of the expence was never recovered, and the theatre was involved considerably in debt.--_Rosc. Anglic._ p. 40. The whigs, against whom the satire was levelled, the rival dramatists of the day, and the favourers of the English school of music, united in triumphing in its downfall[1]. Mr Luttrell's manuscript note has fixed the first representation of "Albion and Albanius" to the 3d of June, 1685; and the laudable accuracy of Mr Malone has traced its sixth night to Saturday the 13th of the same month, when an express brought the news of Monmouth's landing. The opera was shortly after published. In 1687 Grabut published the music, with a dedication to James II.[2] Footnotes: 1. The following verses are rather better worthy of preservation than most which have been written against Dryden. From Father Hopkins, whose vein did inspire him, Bayes sends this raree-show to public view; Prentices, fops, and their footmen admire him, Thanks patron, painter, and Monsieur Grabu. Each actor on the stage his luck bewailing, Finds that his loss is infallibly true; Smith, Nokes, and Leigh, in a fever with railing, Curse poet, painter, and Monsieur Grabu. Betterton, Betterton, thy decorations, And the machines, were well written, we knew; But, all the words were such stuff, we want patience, And little better is Monsieur Grabu. Damme, says Underhill, I'm out of two hundred, Hoping that rainbows and peacocks would do; Who thought infallible Tom[a] could have blundered? A plague upon him and Monsieur Grabu! Lane, thou hast no applause for thy capers, Though all, without thee, would make a man spew; And a month hence will not pay for the tapers, Spite of Jack Laureat, and Monsieur Grabu. Bayes, thou wouldst have thy skill thought universal, Though thy dull ear be to music untrue; Then, whilst we strive to confute the Rehearsal, Prithee leave thrashing of Monsieur Grabu. With thy dull prefaces still thou wouldst treat us, Striving to make thy dull bauble look fair; So the horned herd of the city do cheat us, Still most commending the worst of their ware. Leave making operas and writing of lyricks, Till thou hast ears, and can alter thy strain; Stick to thy talent of bold panegyricks, And still remember--_breathing the vein_[b]. Yet, if thou thinkest the town will extoll them, Print thy dull notes; but be thrifty and wise: Instead of angels subscribed for the volume, Take a round shilling, and thank my advice. In imitating thee, this may be charming, Gleaning from laureats is no shame at all; And let this song be sung next performing, Else, ten to one that the prices will fall. Footnotes: a. Thomas Betterton. b. An expression in Dryden's poem on the death of Cromwell, which his libeller insisted on applying to the death of Charles I. 2. Langbaine has preserved another jest upon our author's preference of Grabut to the English musicians. Grabut, his yokemate, ne'er shall be forgot. Whom th' god of tunes upon a muse begot; Bayes on a double score to him belongs, As well for writing, as for setting songs; For some have sworn the intrigue so odd is laid, That Bayes and he mistook each other's trade, Grabut the lines, and he the music made. THE PREFACE. If wit has truly been defined, "a propriety of thoughts and words,[1]" then that definition will extend to all sorts of poetry; and, among the rest, to this present entertainment of an opera. Propriety of thought is that fancy which arises naturally from the subject, or which the poet adapts to it; propriety of words is the clothing of those thoughts with such expressions as are naturally proper to them; and from both these, if they are judiciously performed, the delight of poetry results. An opera is a poetical tale, or fiction, represented by vocal and instrumental music, adorned with scenes, machines, and dancing. The supposed persons of this musical drama are generally supernatural, as gods, and goddesses, and heroes, which at least are descended from them, and are in due time to be adopted into their number. The subject, therefore, being extended beyond the limits of human nature, admits of that sort of marvellous and surprising conduct, which is rejected in other plays. Human impossibilities are to be received as they are in faith; because, where gods are introduced, a supreme power is to be understood, and second causes are out of doors; yet propriety is to be observed even here. The gods are all to manage their peculiar provinces; and what was attributed by the heathens to one power, ought not to be performed by any other. Phoebus must foretel, Mercury must charm with his caduceus, and Juno must reconcile the quarrels of the marriage-bed; to conclude, they must all act according to their distinct and peculiar characters. If the persons represented were to speak upon the stage, it would follow, of necessity, that the expressions should be lofty, figurative, and majestical: but the nature of an opera denies the frequent use of these poetical ornaments; for vocal music, though it often admits a loftiness of sound, yet always exacts an harmonious sweetness; or, to distinguish yet more justly, the recitative part of the opera requires a more masculine beauty of expression and sound. The other, which, for want of a proper English word, I must call the _songish part_, must abound in the softness and variety of numbers; its principal intention being to please the hearing, rather than to gratify the understanding. It appears, indeed, preposterous at first sight, that rhyme, on any consideration, should take place of reason; but, in order to resolve the problem, this fundamental proposition must be settled, that the first inventors of any art or science, provided they have brought it to perfection, are, in reason, to give laws to it; and, according to their model, all after-undertakers are to build. Thus, in epic poetry, no man ought to dispute the authority of Homer, who gave the first being to that masterpiece of art, and endued it with that form of perfection in all its parts, that nothing was wanting to its excellency. Virgil therefore, and those very few who have succeeded him, endeavoured not to introduce, or innovate, any thing in a design already perfected, but imitated the plan of the inventor; and are only so far true heroic poets, as they have built on the foundations of Homer. Thus, Pindar, the author of those Odes, which are so admirably restored by Mr Cowley in our language, ought for ever to be the standard of them; and we are bound, according to the practice of Horace and Mr Cowley, to copy him. Now, to apply this axiom to our present purpose, whosoever undertakes the writing of an opera, which is a modern invention, though built indeed on the foundation of ethnic worship, is obliged to imitate the design of the Italians, who have not only invented, but brought to perfection, this sort of dramatic musical entertainment. I have not been able, by any search, to get any light, either of the time when it began, or of the first author; but I have probable reasons, which induce me to believe, that some Italians, having curiously observed the gallantries of the Spanish Moors at their zambras, or royal feasts, where music, songs, and dancing, were in perfection, together with their machines, which are usual at their _sortija_, or running at the ring, and other solemnities, may possibly have refined upon those moresque divertisements, and produced this delightful entertainment, by leaving out the warlike part of the carousals, and forming a poetical design for the use of the machines, the songs, and dances. But however it began, (for this is only conjectural,) we know, that, for some centuries, the knowledge of music has flourished principally in Italy, the mother of learning and of arts[2]; that poetry and painting have been there restored, and so cultivated by Italian masters, that all Europe has been enriched out of their treasury; and the other parts of it, in relation to those delightful arts, are still as much provincial to Italy, as they were in the time of the Roman empire. Their first operas seem to have been intended for the celebration of the marriages of their princes, or for the magnificence of some general time of joy; accordingly, the expences of them were from the purse of the sovereign, or of the republic, as they are still practised at Venice, Rome, and at other places, at their carnivals. Savoy and Florence have often used them in their courts, at the weddings of their dukes; and at Turin particularly, was performed the "Pastor Fido," written by the famous Guarini, which is a pastoral opera made to solemnise the marriage of a Duke of Savoy. The prologue of it has given the design to all the French; which is a compliment to the sovereign power by some god or goddess; so that it looks no less than a kind of embassy from heaven to earth. I said in the beginning of this preface, that the persons represented in operas are generally gods, goddesses, and heroes descended from them, who are supposed to be their peculiar care; which hinders not, but that meaner persons may sometimes gracefully be introduced, especially if they have relation to those first times, which poets call the Golden Age; wherein, by reason of their innocence, those happy mortals were supposed to have had a more familiar intercourse with superior beings; and therefore shepherds might reasonably be admitted, as of all callings the most innocent, the most happy, and who, by reason of the spare time they had, in their almost idle employment, had most leisure to make verses, and to be in love; without somewhat of which passion, no opera can possibly subsist. It is almost needless to speak any thing of that noble language, in which this musical drama was first invented and performed. All, who are conversant in the Italian, cannot but observe, that it is the softest, the sweetest, the most harmonious, not only of any modern tongue, but even beyond any of the learned. It seems indeed to have been invented for the sake of poetry and music; the vowels are so abounding in all words, especially in terminations of them, that, excepting some few monosyllables, the whole language ends in them. Then the pronunciation is so manly, and so sonorous, that their very speaking has more of music in it than Dutch poetry and song. It has withal derived, so much copiousness and eloquence from the Greek and Latin, in the composition of words, and the formation of them, that if, after all, we must call it barbarous, it is the most beautiful and most learned of any barbarism in modern tongues; and we may, at least, as justly praise it, as Pyrrhus did the Roman discipline and martial order, that it was of barbarians, (for so the Greeks called all other nations,) but had nothing in it of barbarity. This language has in a manner been refined and purified from the Gothic ever since the time of Dante, which is above four hundred years ago; and the French, who now cast a longing eye to their country, are not less ambitious to possess their elegance in poetry and music; in both which they labour at impossibilities. It is true, indeed, they have reformed their tongue, and brought both their prose and poetry to a standard; the sweetness, as well as the purity, is much improved, by throwing off the unnecessary consonants, which made their spelling tedious and their pronunciation harsh: but, after all, as nothing can be improved beyond its own _species_, or farther than its original nature will allow; as an ill voice, though ever so thoroughly instructed in the rules of music, can never be brought to sing harmoniously, nor many an honest critic ever arrive to be a good poet; so neither can the natural harshness of the French, or their perpetual ill accent, be ever refined into perfect harmony like the Italian. The English has yet more natural disadvantages than the French; our original Teutonic, consisting most in monosyllables, and those incumbered with consonants, cannot possibly be freed from those inconveniencies. The rest of our words, which are derived from the Latin chiefly, and the French, with some small sprinklings of Greek, Italian, and Spanish, are some relief in poetry, and help us to soften our uncouth numbers; which, together with our English genius, incomparably beyond the trifling of the French, in all the nobler parts of verse, will justly give us the pre-eminence. But, on the other hand, the effeminacy of our pronunciation, (a defect common to us and to the Danes,) and our scarcity of female rhymes, have left the advantage of musical composition for songs, though not for recitative, to our neighbours. Through these difficulties I have made a shift to struggle in my part of the performance of this opera; which, as mean as it is, deserves at least a pardon, because it has attempted a discovery beyond any former undertaker of our nation; only remember, that if there be no north-east passage to be found, the fault is in nature, and not in me; or, as Ben Jonson tells us in "The Alchymist," when projection had failed, and the glasses were all broken, there was enough, however, in the bottoms of them, to cure the itch; so I may thus be positive, that if I have not succeeded as I desire, yet there is somewhat still remaining to satisfy the curiosity, or itch of sight and hearing. Yet I have no great reason to despair; for I may, without vanity, own some advantages, which are not common to every writer; such as are the knowledge of the Italian and French language, and the being conversant with some of their best performances in this kind; which have furnished me with such variety of measures as have given the composer, Monsieur Grabut, what occasions he could wish, to shew his extraordinary talent in diversifying the recitative, the lyrical part, and the chorus; in all which, not to attribute any thing to my own opinion, the best judges and those too of the best quality, who have honoured his rehearsals with their presence, have no less commended the happiness of his genius than his skill. And let me have the liberty to add one thing, that he has so exactly expressed my sense in all places where I intended to move the passions, that he seems to have entered into my thoughts, and to have been the poet as well as the composer. This I say, not to flatter him, but to do him right; because amongst some English musicians, and their scholars, who are sure to judge after them, the imputation of being a Frenchman is enough to make a party, who maliciously endeavour to decry him. But the knowledge of Latin and Italian poets, both which he possesses, besides his skill in music, and his being acquainted with all the performances of the French operas, adding to these the good sense to which he is born, have raised him to a degree above any man, who shall pretend to be his rival on our stage. When any of our countrymen excel him, I shall be glad, for the sake of old England, to be shewn my error; in the mean time, let virtue be commended, though in the person of a stranger[3]. If I thought it convenient, I could here discover some rules which I have given to myself in writing of an opera in general, and of this opera in particular; but I consider, that the effect would only be, to have my own performance measured by the laws I gave; and, consequently, to set up some little judges, who, not understanding thoroughly, would be sure to fall upon the faults, and not to acknowledge any of the beauties; an hard measure, which I have often found from false critics. Here, therefore, if they will criticise, they shall do it out of their own _fond_; but let them first be assured that their ears are nice; for there is neither writing nor judgment on this subject without that good quality. It is no easy matter, in our language, to make words so smooth, and numbers so harmonious, that they shall almost set themselves. And yet there are rules for this in nature, and as great a certainty of quantity in our syllables, as either in the Greek or Latin: but let poets and judges understand those first, and then let them begin to study English. When they have chewed a while upon these preliminaries, it may be they will scarce adventure to tax me with want of thought and elevation of fancy in this work; for they will soon be satisfied, that those are not of the nature of this sort of writing. The necessity of double rhimes, and ordering of the words and numbers for the sweetness of the voice, are the main hinges on which an opera must move; and both of these are without the compass of any art to teach another to perform, unless nature, in the first place, has done her part, by enduing the poet with that nicety of hearing, that the discord of sounds in words shall as much offend him, as a seventh in music would a good composer. I have therefore no need to make excuses for meanness of thought in many places: the Italians, with all the advantages of their language, are continually forced upon it, or, rather, affect it. The chief secret is the choice of words; and, by this choice, I do not here mean elegancy of expression, but propriety of sound, to be varied according to the nature of the subject. Perhaps a time may come when I may treat of this more largely, out of some observations which I have made from Homer and Virgil, who, amongst all the poets, only understood the art of numbers, and of that which was properly called _rhythmus_ by the ancients. The same reasons, which depress thought in an opera, have a stronger effect upon the words, especially in our language; for there is no maintaining the purity of English in short measures, where the rhime returns so quick, and is so often female, or double rhime, which is not natural to our tongue, because it consists too much of monosyllables, and those, too, most commonly clogged with consonants; for which reason I am often forced to coin new words, revive some that are antiquated, and botch others; as if I had not served out my time in poetry, but was bound apprentice to some doggrel rhimer, who makes songs to tunes, and sings them for a livelihood. It is true, I have not been often put to this drudgery; but where I have, the words will sufficiently shew, that I was then a slave to the composition, which I will never be again: it is my part to invent, and the musician's to humour that invention. I may be counselled, and will always follow my friend's advice where I find it reasonable, but will never part with the power of the militia[4]. I am now to acquaint my reader with somewhat more particular concerning this opera, after having begged his pardon for so long a preface to so short a work. It was originally intended only for a prologue to a play of the nature of "The Tempest;" which is a tragedy mixed with opera, or a drama, written in blank verse, adorned with scenes, machines, songs, and dances, so that the fable of it is all spoken and acted by the best of the comedians; the other part of the entertainment to be performed by the same singers and dancers who were introduced in this present opera. It cannot properly be called a play, because the action of it is supposed to be conducted sometimes by supernatural means, or magic; nor an opera, because the story of it is not sung.--But more of this at its proper time.--But some intervening accidents having hitherto deferred the performance of the main design, I proposed to the actors, to turn the intended Prologue into an entertainment by itself, as you now see it, by adding two acts more to what I had already written. The subject of it is wholly allegorical; and the allegory itself so very obvious, that it will no sooner be read than understood. It is divided, according to the plain and natural method of every action, into three parts. For even Aristotle himself is contented to say simply, that in all actions there is a beginning, a middle, and an end; after which model all the Spanish plays are built. The descriptions of the scenes, and other decorations of the stage, I had from Mr Betterton, who has spared neither for industry, nor cost, to make this entertainment perfect, nor for invention of the ornaments to beautify it. To conclude, though the enemies of the composer are not few, and that there is a party formed against him of his own profession, I hope, and am persuaded, that this prejudice will turn in the end to his advantage. For the greatest part of an audience is always uninterested, though seldom knowing; and if the music be well composed, and well performed, they, who find themselves pleased, will be so wise as not to be imposed upon, and fooled out of their satisfaction. The newness of the undertaking is all the hazard. When operas were first set up in France, they were not followed over eagerly; but they gained daily upon their hearers, till they grew to that height of reputation, which they now enjoy. The English, I confess, are not altogether so musical as the French; and yet they have been pleased already with "The Tempest," and some pieces that followed, which were neither much better written, nor so well composed as this. If it finds encouragement, I dare promise myself to mend my hand, by making a more pleasing fable. In the mean time, every loyal Englishman cannot but be satisfied with the moral of this, which so plainly represents the double restoration of His Sacred Majesty. POSTSCRIPT. This preface being wholly written before the death of my late royal master, (_quem semper acerbum, semper honoratum, sic dii voluistis, habebo_) I have now lately reviewed it, as supposing I should find many notions in it, that would require correction on cooler thoughts. After four months lying by me, I looked on it as no longer mine, because I had wholly forgotten it; but I confess with some satisfaction, and perhaps a little vanity, that I found myself entertained by it; my own judgment was new to me, and pleased me when I looked on it as another man's. I see no opinion that I would retract or alter, unless it be, that possibly the Italians went not so far as Spain, for the invention of their operas. They might have it in their own country; and that by gathering up the shipwrecks of the Athenian and Roman theatres, which we know were adorned with scenes, music, dances, and machines, especially the Grecian. But of this the learned Monsieur Vossius, who has made our nation his second country, is the best, and perhaps the only judge now living. As for the opera itself, it was all composed, and was just ready to have been performed, when he, in honour of whom it was principally made, was taken from us. He had been pleased twice or thrice to command, that it should be practised before him, especially the first and third acts of it; and publicly declared more than once, that the composition and choruses were more just, and more beautiful, than any he had heard in England. How nice an ear he had in music, is sufficiently known; his praise therefore has established the reputation of it above censure, and made it in a manner sacred. It is therefore humbly and religiously dedicated to his memory. It might reasonably have been expected that his death must have changed the whole fabric of the opera, or at least a great part of it. But the design of it originally was so happy, that it needed no alteration, properly so called; for the addition of twenty or thirty lines in the apotheosis of Albion, has made it entirely of a piece, This was the only way which could have been invented, to save it from botched ending; and it fell luckily into my imagination; as if there were a kind of fatality even in the most trivial things concerning the succession: a change was made, and not for the worse, without the least confusion or disturbance; and those very causes, which seemed to threaten us with troubles, conspired to produce our lasting happiness. Footnotes: 1. This definition occurs in the preface to the "State of Innocence;" but although given by Dryden, and sanctioned by Pope, it has a very limited resemblance to that which is defined. Mr Addison has, however, mistaken Dryden, in supposing that he applied this definition exclusively to what we now properly call _wit_. From the context it is plain, that he meant to include all poetical composition.--_Spectator_, No. 62. The word once comprehended human knowledge in general. We still talk of the wit of man, to signify all that man can devise. 2. The first Italian opera is said to have been that of "Dafne," performed at Florence in 1597.--_See_ BURNEY'S _History of Music_, Vol. iv. p. 17. 3. This passage gave great offence, being supposed to contain an oblique reflection on Purcell and the other English composers. 4. Alluding to the disputes betwixt the King and Parliament, on the important point of the command of the militia.] PROLOGUE Full twenty years, and more, our labouring stage Has lost, on this incorrigible age: Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation, Have seemed to lash ye, even to excoriation; But still no sign remains; which plainly notes, You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.-- What can we do, when mimicking a fop, Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop? 'Faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you, Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you. Satire was once your physic, wit your food; One nourished not, and t'other drew no blood: We now prescribe, like doctors in despair, The diet your weak appetites can bear. Since hearty beef and mutton will not do, Here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and show: Give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady; You're come to farce,--that's asses milk,--already. Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit, Who one day may be men, if heaven think fit; Sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown, Like leading-strings, till they can walk alone.-- But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know, The wise Italians first invented show; Thence into France the noble pageant past: 'Tis England's credit to be cozened last. Freedom and zeal have choused you o'er and o'er; } Pray give us leave to bubble you once more; } You never were so cheaply fooled before: } We bring you change, to humour your disease; Change for the worse has ever used to please: Then, 'tis the mode of France; without whose rules, None must presume to set up here for fools. In France, the oldest man is always young, Sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long, Till foot, hand, head, keep time with every song: Each sings his part, echoing from pit and box, With his hoarse voice, half harmony, half pox[1]. _Le plus grand roi du monde_ is always ringing, They show themselves good subjects by their singing: On that condition, set up every throat; You whigs may sing, for you have changed your note. Cits and citesses, raise a joyful strain, 'Tis a good omen to begin a reign; Voices may help your charter to restoring, And get by singing, what you lost by roaring. Footnote: 1. This practice continued at the opera of Paris in the time of Gay. It could hardly have obtained any where else. "But, hark! the full orchestra strikes the strings, The hero struts, and the whole audience sings; My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound. Hoarse and confused, like Babel's mingled sound. Hard chance had placed me near a noisy throat, That, in rough quavers, bellowed every note: "Pray, Sir," said I, "suspend awhile your song, The opera's drowned, your lungs are wondrous strong; I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain, When he with rooted forests strews the plain."-- "_Monsieur assurement n'aime pas la musique._" Then turning round, he joined the ungrateful noise, And the loud chorus thundered with his voice." _Epistle to the Right Hon. William Pulteney._ Names of the Persons, represented in the same order as they appear first upon the stage. MERCURY. AUGUSTA. _London._ THAMESIS. DEMOCRACY. ZELOTA. _Feigned Zeal._ ARCHON. _The General._ JUNO. IRIS. ALBION. ALBANIUS. PLUTO. ALECTO. APOLLO. NEPTUNE. NEREIDS. ACACIA. _Innocence._ TYRANNY. ASEBIA. _Atheism,_ or _Ungodliness._ PROTEUS. VENUS. FAME. _A Chorus of Cities._ _A Chorus of Rivers._ _A Chorus of the People._ _A Chorus of Furies._ _A Chorus of Nereids and Tritons._ _A grand Chorus of Heroes, Loves, and Graces._ THE FRONTISPIECE. The curtain rises, and a new frontispiece is seen, joined to the great pilasters, which are seen on each side of the stage: on the flat of each basis is a shield, adorned with gold; in the middle of the shield, on one side, are two hearts, a small scroll of gold over them, and an imperial crown over the scroll; on the other hand, in the shield, are two quivers full of arrows saltyre, &c.; upon each basis stands a figure bigger than the life; one represents Peace, with a palm in one, and an olive branch in the other hand; the other Plenty, holding a cornucopia, and resting on a pillar. Behind these figures are large columns of the Corinthian order, adorned with fruit and flowers: over one of the figures on the trees is the king's cypher; over the other, the queen's: over the capitals, on the cornice, sits a figure on each side; one represents Poetry, crowned with laurel, holding a scroll in one hand, the other with a pen in it, and resting on a book; the other, Painting, with a pallet and pencils, &c.: on the sweep of the arch lies one of the Muses, playing on a bass-viol; another of the Muses, on the other side, holding a trumpet in one hand, and the other on a harp. Between these figures, in the middle of the sweep of the arch, is a very large pannel in a frame of gold; in this pannel is painted, on one side, a Woman, representing the city of London, leaning her head on her hand in a dejected posture, showing her sorrow and penitence for her offences; the other hand holds the arms of the city, and a mace lying under it: on the other side is a figure of the Thames, with his legs shackled, and leaning on an empty urn: behind these are two imperial figures; one representing his present majesty; and the other the queen: by the king stands Pallas, (or wisdom and valour,) holding a charter for the city, the king extending his hand, as raising her drooping head, and restoring her to her ancient honour and glory: over the city are the envious devouring Harpies flying from the face of his majesty: By the queen stand the Three Graces, holding garlands of flowers, and at her feet Cupids bound, with their bows and arrows broken, the queen pointing with her sceptre to the river, and commanding the Graces to take off their fetters. Over the king, in a scroll, is this verse of Virgil, _Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._ Over the queen, this of the same author, _Non ignara mali, miscris succurrere disco._ ALBION AND ALBANIUS. AN OPERA. DECORATIONS OF THE STAGE IN THE FIRST ACT. _The Curtain rises, and there appears on either side of the Stage, next to the Frontispiece, a Statue on Horseback of Gold, on Pedestals of Marble, enriched with Gold, and bearing the Imperial Arms of England. One of these Statues is taken from that of the late King at Charing-cross; the other from that figure of his present Majesty (done by that noble Artist, Mr. Gibbons) at Windsor._ _The Scene is a Street of Palaces, which lead to the Front of the Royal-Exchange; the great Arch is open, and the view is continued through the open part of the Exchange, to the Arch on the other side, and thence to as much of the Street beyond, as could possibly be taken._ MERCURY DESCENDS IN A CHARIOT DRAWN BY RAVENS. _He comes to Augusta and Thamesis. They lie on Couches at a distance from each other in dejected postures; She attended by Cities, He by Rivers._ _On the side of Augusta's Couch are painted towers falling, a Scarlet Gown, and a Gold Chain, a Cap of Maintenance thrown down, and a Sword in a Velvet Scabbard thrust through it, the City Arms, a Mace with an old useless Charter, and all in disorder. Before Thamesis are broken Reeds, Bull-rushes, Sedge, &c. with his Urn Reverst._ ACT I. MERCURY _Descends._ _Mer._ Thou glorious fabric! stand, for ever stand: Well worthy thou to entertain The God of Traffic, and of Gain, To draw the concourse of the land, And wealth of all the main. But where the shoals of merchants meeting? Welcome to their friends repeating, Busy bargains' deafer sound? Tongue confused of every nation? Nothing here but desolation, Mournful silence reigns around. _Aug._ O Hermes! pity me! I was, while heaven did smile, The queen of all this isle, Europe's pride, And Albion's bride; But gone my plighted lord! ah, gone is he! O Hermes! pity me! _Tham._ And I the noble Flood, whose tributary tide Does on her silver margent smoothly glide; But heaven grew jealous of our happy state, And bid revolving fate Our doom decree; No more the King of Floods am I, No more the Queen of Albion, she! [_These two Lines are sung by Reprises betwixt_ AUGUSTA _and_ THAMESIS. _Aug._ O Hermes! pity me! } _Sung by_ AUG. _and_ } THAM. _together._ _Tham._ O Hermes! pity me! } _Aug._ Behold! _Tham._ Behold! _Aug._ My turrets on the ground, That once my temples crowned! _Tham._ The sedgy honours of my brows dispersed! My urn reversed! _Merc._ Rise, rise, Augusta, rise! And wipe thy weeping eyes: Augusta!--for I call thee so: 'Tis lawful for the gods to know Thy future name, And growing fame. Rise, rise, Augusta, rise. _Aug._ O never, never will I rise, Never will I cease my mourning, Never wipe my weeping eyes, Till my plighted lord's returning! Never, never will I rise! _Merc._ What brought thee, wretch, to this despair? The cause of thy misfortune show. _Aug._ It seems the gods take little care Of human things below, When even our sufferings here they do not know. _Merc._ Not unknowing came I down, Disloyal town! Speak! didst not thou Forsake thy faith, and break thy nuptial vow? _Aug._ Ah, 'tis too true! too true! But what could I, unthinking city, do? Faction swayed me, Zeal allured me, Both assured me. Both betrayed me! _Merc._ Suppose me sent Thy Albion to restore,-- Can'st thou repent? _Aug._ My falsehood I deplore! _Tham._ Thou seest her mourn, and I With all my waters will her tears supply. _Merc._ Then by some loyal deed regain Thy long-lost reputation, To wash away the stain That blots a noble nation, And free thy famous town again From force of usurpation. _Chorus of all._ We'll wash away the stain That blots a noble nation, And free this famous town again From force of usurpation. [_Dance of the Followers of_ MERCURY. _Aug._ Behold Democracy and Zeal appear; She, that allured my heart away, And he, that after made a prey. _Merc._ Resist, and do not fear! _Chorus of all._ Resist, and do not fear! _Enter_ DEMOCRACY _and_ ZEAL _attended by_ ARCHON. _Democ._ Nymph of the city! bring thy treasures, Bring me more To waste in pleasures. _Aug._ Thou hast exhausted all my store, And I can give no more. _Zeal._ Thou horny flood, for Zeal provide A new supply; and swell thy moony tide, That on thy buxom back the floating gold may glide. _Tham._ Not all the gold the southern sun produces, Or treasures of the famed Levant, Suffice for pious uses, To feed the sacred hunger of a saint! _Democ._ Woe to the vanquished, woe! Slave as thou art, Thy wealth impart, And me thy victor know! _Zeal._ And me thy victor know. Resistless arms are in my hand, Thy bars shall burst at my command, Thy tory head lie low. Woe to the vanquished, woe! _Aug._ Were I not bound by fate For ever, ever here, My walls I would translate To some more happy sphere, Removed from servile fear. _Tham._ Removed from servile fear. Would I could disappear, And sink below the main; For commonwealth's a load, My old imperial flood Shall never, never bear again. A commonwealth's a load, } THAMES. _and_ Our old imperial flood, } AUG. _together._ Shall never, never, never, bear again. } _Dem._ Pull down her gates, expose her bare; I must enjoy the proud disdainful fair. Haste, Archon, haste To lay her waste[1]! _Zeal._ I'll hold her fast To be embraced! _Dem._ And she shall see A thousand tyrants are in thee, A thousand thousand more in me! _Archon._ to _Aug._ From the Caledonian shore Hither am I come to save thee, Not to force or to enslave thee, But thy Albion to restore: Hark! the peals the people ring, Peace, and freedom, and a king. _Chorus._ Hark! the peals the people ring, Peace, and freedom, and a king. _Aug._ and _Tham._ To arms! to arms! _Archon._ I lead the way! _Merc._ Cease your alarms! And stay, brave Archon, stay! 'Tis doomed by fate's decree, 'Tis doomed that Albion's dwelling, All other isles excelling, By peace shall happy be. _Archon._ What then remains for me? _Merc._ Take my caduceus! Take this awful wand, With this the infernal ghosts I can command, And strike a terror through the Stygian land. Commonwealth will want pretences, Sleep will creep on all his senses; Zeal that lent him her assistance, Stand amazed without resistance. [ARCHON _touches_ DEMOCRACY _with a Wand._ _Dem._ I feel a lazy slumber lays me down: Let Albion, let him take the crown. Happy let him reign, Till I wake again. [_Falls asleep._ _Zeal._ In vain I rage, in vain I rouse my powers; But I shall wake again, I shall, to better hours. Even in slumber will I vex him; Still perplex him, Still incumber: Know, you that have adored him, And sovereign power afford him, We'll reap the gains Of all your pains, And seem to have restored him. [ZEAL _falls asleep._ _Aug._ and _Tham._ A stupifying sadness Leaves her without motion; But sleep will cure her madness, And cool her to devotion. _A double Pedestal rises: on the Front of it is painted, in Stone-colour, two Women; one holding a double-faced Vizor; the other a Book, representing_ HYPOCRISY _and_ FANATICISM; _when_ ARCHON _has charmed_ DEMOCRACY _and_ ZEAL _with the Caduceus of_ MERCURY, _they fall asleep on the Pedestal, and it sinks with them._ _Merc._ Cease, Augusta! cease thy mourning, Happy days appear; God-like Albion is returning Loyal hearts to chear. Every grace his youth adorning, Glorious as the star of morning, Or the planet of the year. _Chor._ Godlike Albion is returning, &c. _Merc._ to _Arch._ Haste away, loyal chief, haste away, No delay, but obey; To receive thy loved lord, haste away. [_Ex._ ARCH. _Tham._ Medway and Isis, you that augment me, Tides that increase my watery store, And you that are friends to peace and plenty, Send my merry boys all ashore; Seamen skipping, Mariners leaping, Shouting, tripping, Send my merry boys all ashore! _A dance of Watermen in the King's and Duke's Liveries._ _The Clouds divide, and_ JUNO _appears in a Machine drawn by Peacocks; while a Symphony is playing, it moves gently forward, and as it descends, it opens and discovers the Tail of the Peacock, which is so large, that it almost fills the opening of the Stage between Scene and Scene._ _Merc._ The clouds divide; what wonders, What wonders do I see! The wife of Jove! 'Tis she, That thunders, more than thundering he! _Juno._ No, Hermes, no; 'Tis peace above As 'tis below; For Jove has left his wand'ring love. _Tham._ Great queen of gathering clouds, Whose moisture fills our floods, See, we fall before thee, Prostrate we adore thee! _Aug._ Great queen of nuptial rites, Whose power the souls unites, And fills the genial bed with chaste delights, See, we fall before thee, Prostrate we adore thee! _Juno._ 'Tis ratified above by every god, And Jove has firmed it with an awful nod, That Albion shall his love renew: But oh, ungrateful fair, Repeated crimes beware, And to his bed be true! IRIS _appears on a very large Machine. This was really seen the 18th of March, 1684, by Captain_ Christopher Gunman, _on Board his R.H. Yacht, then in Calais Pierre: He drew it as it then appeared, and gave a Draught of it to us. We have only added the Cloud where the Person of_ IRIS _sits._ _Juno._ Speak, Iris, from Batavia, speak the news! Has he performed my dread command, Returning Albion to his longing land, Or dare the nymph refuse? _Iris._ Albion, by the nymph attended, Was to Neptune recommended; Peace and Plenty spread the sails, Venus, in her shell before him, From the sands in safety bore him, And supplied Etesian gales. [_Retornella._ Archon, on the shore commanding, Lowly met him at his landing, Crowds of people swarmed around; Welcome rang like peals of thunder; Welcome, rent the skies asunder; Welcome, heaven and earth resound. _Juno._ Why stay we then on earth, When mortals laugh and love? 'Tis time to mount above, And send Astraea down, The ruler of his birth, And guardian of his crown. 'Tis time to mount above, And send Astraea down. _Mer. Jun. Ir._ 'Tis time to mount above, And send Astraea down. [MER. JU. _and_ IR. _ascend._ _Aug._ and _Tham._ The royal squadron marches, Erect triumphal arches, For Albion and Albanius; Rejoice at their returning, The passages adorning: The royal squadron marches, Erect triumphal arches For Albion and Albanius. _Part of the Scene disappears, and the Four Triumphal arches, erected on his Majesty's Coronation, are seen._ ALBION _appears,_ ALBANIUS _by his Side, preceded by_ ARCHON, _followed by a Train, &c._ _Full Chorus._ Hail, royal Albion, Hail! _Aug._ Hail, royal Albion, hail to thee, Thy longing people's expectation! _Tham._ Sent from the gods to set us free From bondage and from usurpation! _Aug._ To pardon and to pity me, And to forgive a guilty nation! _Tham._ Behold the differing Climes agree, Rejoicing in thy restoration. Entry. _Representing the Four Parts of the World, rejoicing at the Restoration of_ ALBION. ACT II. _The Scene is a Poetical Hell. The Change is total; The Upper Part of the House, as well as the Side-Scenes. There is the Figure of_ PROMETHEUS _chained to a Rock, the Vulture gnawing his Liver;_ SISYPHUS _rolling the Stone; the_ BELIDES, _&c. Beyond, Abundance of Figures in various Torments. Then a great Arch of Fire. Behind this, three Pyramids of Flames in perpetual Agitation. Beyond this, glowing Fire, which terminates the Prospect._ PLUTO, _and the_ FURIES; _with_ ALECTO, DEMOCRACY, _and_ ZELOTA. _Plu._ Infernal offspring of the night, Debarred of heaven your native right, And from the glorious fields of light, Condemned in shades to drag the chain, And fill with groans the gloomy plain; Since, pleasures here are none below, Be ill our good, our joy be woe; Our work to embroil the worlds above, Disturb their union, disunite their love, And blast the beauteous frame of our victorious foe. _Dem._ and _Zel._ O thou, for whom those worlds are made, Thou sire of all things, and their end, From hence they spring, and when they fade, In shuffled heaps they hither tend; Here human souls receive their breath, And wait for bodies after death. _Dem._ Hear our complaint, and grant our prayer. _Plu._ Speak what you are, And whence you fell? _Dem._ I am thy first-begotten care, Conceived in heaven, but born in hell. When thou didst bravely undertake in fight Yon arbitrary power, That rules by sovereign might, To set thy heaven-born fellows free, And leave no difference in degree, In that auspicious hour Was I begot by thee. _Zel._ One mother bore us at a birth, Her name was Zeal before she fell; No fairer nymph in heaven or earth, 'Till saintship taught her to rebel: But losing fame, And changing name, She's now the Good Old Cause in hell. _Plu._ Dear pledges of a flame not yet forgot, Say, what on earth has been your lot? _Dem._ and _Zel._ The wealth of Albion's isle was ours, Augusta stooped with all her stately towers. _Dem._ Democracy kept nobles under. _Zel._ Zeal from the pulpit roared like thunder. _Dem._ I trampled on the state. _Zel._ I lorded o'er the gown. _Dem._ and _Zel._ We both in triumph sate, Usurpers of the crown. But oh, prodigious turn of fate! Heaven controuling, Sent us rolling, rolling down. _Plu._ I wondered how of late our Acherontic shore Grew thin, and hell unpeopled of her store; Charon, for want of use, forgot his oar. The souls of bodies dead flew all sublime, And hither none returned to purge a crime: But now I see, since Albion is restored, Death has no business, nor the vengeful sword. 'Tis too, too much that here I lie From glorious empire hurled; By Jove excluded from the sky; By Albion from the world. _Dem._ Were common-wealth restored again, Thou shouldst have millions of the slain To fill thy dark abode. _Zel._ For he a race of rebels sends, And Zeal the path of heaven pretends, But still mistakes the road. _Plu._ My labouring thought At length hath wrought A bravely bold design, In which you both shall join. In borrowed shapes to earth return; Thou, Common-wealth, a Patriot seem, Thou, Zeal, like true Religion burn, To gain the giddy crowd's esteem.-- Alecto, thou to fair Augusta go, And all thy snakes into her bosom throw. _Dem._ Spare some, to fling Where they may sting The breast of Albion's king. _Zel._ Let jealousies so well be mixed, That great Albanius be unfixed. _Plu._ Forbear your vain attempts, forbear: Hell can have no admittance there; The people's fear will serve as well, Make him suspected, them rebel. _Zel._ You've all forgot To forge a plot, In seeming care of Albion's life; Inspire the crowd With clamours loud, To involve his brother and his wife. _Alec._ Take, of a thousand souls at thy command, The basest, blackest of the Stygian band, One, that will swear to all they can invent, So thoroughly damned, that he can ne'er repent: One, often sent to earth, And still at every birth He took a deeper stain: One, that in Adam's time was Cain; One, that was burnt in Sodom's flame, For crimes even here too black to name: One, who through every form of ill has run: One, who in Naboth's days was Belial's son; One, who has gained a body fit for sin; Where all his crimes Of former times Lie crowded in a skin[2]. _Plu._ Take him, Make him What you please; For he can be A rogue with ease. One for mighty mischief born; He can swear, and be forsworn. _Plu._ and _Alect._ Take him, make him what you please; For he can be a rogue with ease. _Plu._ Let us laugh, let us laugh, let us laugh at our woes, The wretch that is damned has nothing to lose.-- Ye furies, advance With the ghosts in a dance. 'Tis a jubilee when the world is in trouble; When people rebel, We frolic in hell; But when the king falls, the pleasure is double. [_A single entry of a Devil, followed by an entry of twelve Devils._ _Chorus._ Let us laugh, let us laugh, let us laugh at our woes, The wretch that is damned hath nothing to lose. _The Scene changes to a Prospect taken from the middle of the Thames; one side of it begins at York-Stairs, thence to White-Hall, and the Mill-bank, &c. The other from the Saw-mill, thence to the Bishop's Palace, and on as far as can be seen in a clear day._ _Enter_ AUGUSTA: _She has a Snake in her Bosom hanging down._ _Aug._ O jealousy, thou raging ill, Why hast thou found a room in lovers' hearts, Afflicting what thou canst not kill, And poisoning love himself, with his own darts? I find my Albion's heart is gone, My first offences yet remain, Nor can repentance love regain; One writ in sand, alas, in marble one. I rave, I rave! my spirits boil Like flames increased, and mounting high with pouring oil; Disdain and love succeed by turns; One freezes me, and t'other burns; it burns. Away, soft love, thou foe to rest! Give hate the full possession of my breast. Hate is the nobler passion far, When love is ill repaid; For at one blow it ends the war, And cures the love-sick maid. _Enter_ DEMOCRACY _and_ ZELOTA; _one represents a Patriot, the other, Religion._ _Dem._ Let not thy generous passion waste its rage, But once again restore our golden age; Still to weep and to complain, Does but more provoke disdain. Let public good Inflame thy blood; With crowds of warlike people thou art stored. And heaps of gold; Reject thy old, And to thy bed receive another lord. _Zel._ Religion shall thy bonds release, For heaven can loose, as well as tie all; And when 'tis for the nation's peace, A king is but a king on trial; When love is lost, let marriage end, And leave a husband for a friend. _Dem._ With jealousy swarming, The people are arming, The frights of oppression invade them. _Zel._ If they fall to relenting, For fear of repenting, Religion shall help to persuade them. _Aug._ No more, no more temptations use To bend my will; How hard a task 'tis to refuse A pleasing ill! _Dem._ Maintain the seeming duty of a wife, A modest show with jealous eyes deceive; Affect a fear for hated Albion's life, And for imaginary dangers grieve. _Zel._ His foes already stand protected, His friends by public fame suspected, Albanius must forsake his isle; A plot, contrived in happy hour, Bereaves him of his royal power, For heaven to mourn, and hell to smile. _The former Scene continues._ _Enter_ ALBION _and_ ALBANIUS _with a train._ _Alb._ Then Zeal and Common-wealth infest My land again; The fumes of madness, that possest The people's giddy brain, Once more disturb the nation's rest, And dye rebellion in a deeper stain. II. Will they at length awake the sleeping sword, And force revenge from their offended lord? How long, ye gods, how long Can royal patience bear The insults and wrong Of madmen's jealousies, and causeless fear? III. I thought their love by mildness might be gained, By peace I was restored, in peace I reigned; But tumults, seditions, And haughty petitions, Are all the effects of a merciful nature; Forgiving and granting, Ere mortals are wanting, But leads to rebelling against their creator. MERCURY _descends._ _Mer._ With pity Jove beholds thy state, But Jove is circumscribed by fate; The o'erwhelming tide rolls on so fast, It gains upon this island's waste; And is opposed too late! too late! _Alb._ What then must helpless Albion do? _Mer._ Delude the fury of the foe, And, to preserve Albanius, let him go; For 'tis decreed, Thy land must bleed, For crimes not thine, by wrathful Jove; A sacred flood Of royal blood Cries vengeance, vengeance, loud above. [MERCURY _ascends._ _Alb._ Shall I, to assuage Their brutal rage, The regal stem destroy? Or must I lose, To please my foes, My sole remaining joy? Ye gods, what worse, What greater curse, Can all your wrath employ! _Alban._ Oh Albion! hear the gods and me! Well am I lost, in saving thee. Not exile or danger can fright a brave spirit, With innocence guarded, With virtue rewarded; I make of my sufferings a merit. _Alb._ Since then the gods and thou will have it so, Go; (Can I live once more to bid thee?) go, Where thy misfortunes call thee, and thy fate; Go, guiltless victim of a guilty state! In war, my champion to defend, In peaceful hours, when souls unbend, My brother, and, what's more, my friend! Borne where the foamy billows roar, On seas less dangerous than the shore; Go, where the gods thy refuge have assigned, Go from my sight; but never from my mind. _Alban._ Whatever hospitable ground Shall be for me, unhappy exile, found, 'Till heaven vouchsafe to smile; What land soe'er,-- Though none so dear As this ungrateful isle,-- O think! O think! no distance can remove My vowed allegiance, and my loyal love. _Alb._ and _Alban._ The rosy-fingered morn appears, And from her mantle shakes her tears, In promise of a glorious day; The sun, returning, mortals chears, And drives the rising mists away, In promise of a glorious day. [_Ritornelle._ _The farther part of the heaven opens, and discovers a Machine; as it moves forward, the clouds which are before it divide, and shew the person of_ APOLLO, _holding the Reins in his Hand. As they fall lower, the Horses appear with the Rays, and a great glory about_ APOLLO. _Apol._ All hail, ye royal pair, The Gods' peculiar care! Fear not the malice of your foes; Their dark designing, And combining, Time and truth shall once expose: Fear not the malice of your foes. II. My sacred oracles assure, The tempest shall not long endure; But when the nation's crimes are purged away, Then shall you both in glory shine; Propitious both, and both divine; In lustre equal to the god of day. [APOLLO _goes forward out of sight._ NEPTUNE _rises out of the Water, and a Train of Rivers, Tritons, and Sea-Nymphs attend him._ _Tham._ Old father Ocean calls my tide; Come away, come away; The barks upon the billows ride, The master will not stay; The merry boatswain from his side His whistle takes, to check and chide The lingering lads' delay, And all the crew aloud have cried, Come away, come away. See, the god of seas attends thee, Nymphs divine, a beauteous train; All the calmer gales befriend thee, In thy passage o'er the main; Every maid her locks is binding, Every Triton's horn is winding; Welcome to the watry plain! CHACON[3]. _Two Nymphs and Tritons sing._ Ye Nymphs, the charge is royal, Which you must convey; Your hearts and hands employ all, Hasten to obey; When earth is grown disloyal, Shew there's honour in the sea. _The_ CHACON _continues._ _The Chorus of Nymphs and Tritons repeat the same Verses._ _The_ CHACON _continues._ _Two Nymphs and Tritons._ Sports and pleasures shall attend you Through all the watry plains, Where Neptune reigns; Venus ready to defend you, And her nymphs to ease your pains, No storm shall offend you, Passing the main; Nor billow threat in vain So sacred a train, 'Till the gods, that defend you, Restore you again. _The_ CHACON _continues._ _The Chorus repeat the same Verses,_ Sports and Pleasures _&c._ _The_ CHACON _continues._ _The two Nymphs and Tritons sing._ See, at your blest returning, Rage disappears; The widowed isle in mourning Dries up her tears; With flowers the meads adorning, Pleasure appears, And love dispels the nation's causeless fears. _The_ CHACON _continues._ _The Chorus of Nymphs and Tritons repeat the same Verses,_ See at your blest returning, _&c._ _The_ CHACON _continues._ _Then the Chorus repeat,_ See the god of Seas, _&c. And this Chorus concludes the Act._ ACT III. _The Scene is a View of Dover, taken from the Sea. A row of Cliffs fill up each Side of the Stage, and the Sea the middle of it, which runs into the Pier; Beyond the Pier, is the town of Dover; On each side of the Town, is seen a very high hill; on one of which is the Castle of Dover; on the other, the great stone which they call the Devil's-Drop. Behind the Town several Hills are seen at a great distance, which finish the View._ _Enter_ ALBION _bare-headed;_ ACACIA _or_ INNOCENCE _with him._ _Alb._ Behold, ye powers! from whom I own A birth immortal, and a throne; See a sacred king uncrowned, See your offspring, Albion, bound; The gifts, you gave with lavish hand, Are all bestowed in vain; Extended empire on the land, Unbounded o'er the main. _Aca._ Empire o'er the land and main, Heaven, that gave, can take again; But a mind, that's truly brave, Stands despising Storms arising, And can ne'er be made a slave. _Alb._ Unhelped I am, who pitied the distressed, And, none oppressing, am by all oppressed; Betrayed, forsaken, and of hope bereft. _Aca._ Yet still the gods, and Innocence are left. _Alb._ Ah! what canst thou avail, Against rebellion armed with zeal, And faced with public good? O monarchs, see Your fate in me! To rule by love, To shed no blood, May be extolled above; But here below, Let princes know, 'Tis fatal to be good. _Chorus of both._ To rule by love, _&c._ _Aca._ Your father Neptune, from the seas, Has Nereids and blue Tritons sent, To charm your discontent. _Nereids rise out of the Sea, and sing; Tritons dance._ From the low palace of old father Ocean, Come we in pity your cares to deplore; Sea-racing dolphins are trained for our motion, Moony tides swelling to roll us ashore. II. Every nymph of the flood, her tresses rending, Throws off her armlet of pearl in the main; Neptune in anguish his charge unattending, Vessels are foundering, and vows are in vain. _Enter_ TYRANNY, DEMOCRACY, _represented by Men, attended by_ ASEBIA _and_ ZELOTA, Women._ _Tyr._ Ha, ha! 'tis what so long I wished and vowed: Our plots and delusions Have wrought such confusions, That the monarch's a slave to the crowd. _Dem._ A design we fomented,-- _Tyr._ By hell it was new! _Dem._ A false plot invented,-- _Tyr._ To cover a true. _Dem._ First with promised faith we flattered. _Tyr._ Then jealousies and fears we scattered. _Aseb._ We never valued right and wrong, But as they served our cause. _Zel._ Our business was to please the throng, And court their wild applause; _Aseb._ For this we bribed the lawyer's tongue. And then destroyed the laws. _Cho._ For this, &c. _Tyr._ To make him safe, we made his friends our prey; _Dem._ To make him great, we scorned his royal sway,-- _Tyr._ And to confirm his crown, we took his heir away. _Dem._ To encrease his store, We kept him poor; _Tyr._ And when to wants we had betrayed him, To keep him low, Pronounced a foe, Whoe'er presumed to aid him. _Aseb._ But you forget the noblest part, And master piece of all your art,-- You told him he was sick at heart. _Zel._ And when you could not work belief In Albion of the imagined grief; Your perjured vouchers, in a breath, Made oath, that he was sick to death; And then five hundred quacks of skill Resolved, 'twas fit he should be ill. _Aseb._ Now hey for a common-wealth, We merrily drink and sing! 'Tis to the nation's health, For every man's a king. _Zel._ Then let the mask begin, The Saints advance, To fill the dance, And the Property Boys come in. _The Boys in white begin a Fantastic Dance[4]._ _Cho._ Let the saints ascend the throne. _Dem._ Saints have wives, and wives have preachers, Gifted men, and able teachers; These to get, and those to own. _Cho._ Let the saints ascend the throne. _Aseb._ Freedom is a bait alluring; Them betraying, us securing, While to sovereign power we soar. _Zel._ Old delusions, new repeated, Shews them born but to be cheated, As their fathers were before. _Six Sectaries begin a formal affected Dance; the two gravest whisper the other four, and draw them into the Plot; they pull out and deliver Libels to them, which they receive._ _Dem._ See friendless Albion there alone, Without defence But innocence; Albanius now is gone. _Tyr._ Say then, what must be done? _Dem._ The gods have put him in our hand[5]. _Zel._ He must be slain. _Tyr._ But who shall then command? _Dem._ The people; for the right returns to those. Who did the trust impose. _Tyr._ 'Tis fit another sun should rise, To cheer the world, and light the skies. _Dem._ But when the sun His race has run, And neither cheers the world, nor lights the skies, 'Tis fit a common-wealth of stars should rise. _Aseb._ Each noble vice Shall bear a price, And virtue shall a drug become; An empty name Was all her fame, But now she shall be dumb. _Zel._ If open vice be what you drive at, A name so broad we'll ne'er connive at. Saints love vice, but, more refinedly, Keep her close, and use her kindly. _Tyr._ Fall on. _Dem._ Fall on; e'er Albion's death, we'll try, If one or many shall his room supply. _The White Boys dance about the Saints; the Saints draw out the Association, and offer it to them; they refuse it, and quarrel about it; then the White Boys and Saints fall into a confused dance, imitating fighting. The White Boys, at the end of the dance, being driven out by the Sectaries, with Protestant Flails.[6]_ _Alb._ See the gods my cause defending, When all human help was past! _Acac._ Factions mutually contending, By each other fall at last. _Alb._ But is not yonder Proteus' cave, Below that steep, Which rising billows brave? _Acac._ It is; and in it lies the god asleep; And snorting by, We may descry The monsters of the deep. _Alb._ He knows the past, And can resolve the future too. _Acac._ 'Tis true! But hold him fast, For he can change his hue.[7] _The Cave of_ PROTEUS _rises out of the Sea; it consists of several arches of Rock-work adorned with mother-of-pearl, coral, and abundance of shells of various kinds. Through the arches is seen the Sea, and parts of Dover-pier; in the middle of the Cave is_ PROTEUS _asleep on a rock adorned with shells, &c. like the Cave._ ALBION _and_ ACACIA _seize on him; and while a symphony is playing, he sinks as they are bringing him forward, and changes himself into a Lion, a Crocodile, a Dragon, and then to his own shape again; he comes forward to the front of the stage, and sings._ SYMPHONY. _Pro._ Albion, loved of gods and men, Prince of peace, too mildly reigning, Cease thy sorrow and complaining; Thou shall be restored again: Albion, loved of gods and men. II. Still thou art the care of heaven, In thy youth to exile driven; Heaven thy ruin then prevented, 'Till the guilty land repented. In thy age, when none could aid thee, Foes conspired, and friends betrayed thee; To the brink of danger driven, Still thou art the care of heaven. _Alb._ To whom shall I my preservation owe? _Pro._ Ask me no more; for 'tis by Neptune's foe.[8] PROTEUS _descends._ DEMOCRACY _and_ ZELOTA _return with their faction._ _Dem._ Our seeming friends, who joined alone, To pull down one, and build another throne, Are all dispersed and gone; We brave republic souls remain. _Zel._ And 'tis by us that Albion must be slain; Say, whom shall we employ The tyrant to destroy? _Dem._ That Archer is by fate designed, With one eye clear, and t'other blind. _Zel._ He comes inspired to do't. _Omnes._ Shoot, holy Cyclop, shoot. _The one-eyed Archer advances, the rest follow. A fire arises betwixt them and_ ALBION.[9] [_Ritornel._ _Dem._ Lo! heaven and earth combine To blast our bold design. What miracles are shewn! Nature's alarmed, And fires are armed, To guard the sacred throne. _Zel._ What help, when jarring elements conspire, To punish our audacious crimes? Retreat betimes, To shun the avenging fire. _Chor._ To shun the avenging fire. [_Ritor._ _As they are going back, a fire arises from behind; they all sink together._[10] _Alb._ Let our tuneful accents upwards move, Till they reach the vaulted arch of those above; Let us adore them; Let us fall before them. _Acac._ Kings they made, and kings they love. When they protect a rightful monarch's reign, The gods in heaven, the gods on earth maintain. _Both._ When they protect, &c. _Alb._ But see, what glories gild the main! _Acac._ Bright Venus brings Albanius back again, With all the Loves and Graces in her train. _A machine rises out of the sea; it opens, and discovers_ VENUS _and_ ALBANIUS _sitting in a great scallop-shell, richly adorned._ VENUS _is attended by the Loves and Graces,_ ALBANIUS _by Heroes; the shell is drawn by dolphins; it moves forward, while a symphony of flutes-doux, &c. is playing, till it lands them on the stage, and then it closes and sinks._ VENUS _sings._ Albion, hail! the gods present thee All the richest of their treasures, Peace and pleasures, To content thee, Dancing their eternal measures. [_Graces and Loves dance an entry._ _Venus._ But, above all human blessing, Take a warlike loyal brother, Never prince had such another; Conduct, courage, truth expressing, All heroic worth possessing. [_Here the Heroes' dance is performed._ _Chor. of all._ But above all, &c. [_Ritor._ _Whilst a Symphony is playing, a very large, and a very glorious Machine descends; the figure of it oval, all the clouds shining with gold, abundance of Angels and Cherubins flying about them, and playing in them; in the midst of it sits_ APOLLO _on a throne of gold; he comes from the machine to_ ALBION. _Phoeb._ From Jove's imperial court, Where all the gods resort, In awful counsel met, Surprising news I bear; Albion the great Must change his seat, For he is adopted there. _Venus._ What stars above shall we displace? Where shall he fill a room divine? _Nept._ Descended from the sea-gods' race, Let him by my Orion shine. _Phoeb._ No, not by that tempestuous sign; Betwixt the Balance and the Maid, The just, August, And peaceful shade, Shall shine in heaven with beams displayed, While great Albanius is on earth obeyed. _Venus._ Albanius, lord of land and main, Shall with fraternal virtues reign; And add his own, To fill the throne; Adored and feared, and loved no less; In war victorious, mild in peace, The joy of man, and Jove's increase. _Acac._ O thou! who mountest the aethereal throne, Be kind and happy to thy own; Now Albion is come, The people of the sky Run gazing, and cry,--Make room, Make room, make room, Make room for our new deity! _Here_ ALBION _mounts the machine, which moves upward slowly._ _A full chorus of all that_ ACACIA _sung._ _Ven._ Behold what triumphs are prepared to grace Thy glorious race, Where love and honour claim an equal place; Already they are fixed by fate, And only ripening ages wait. _The Scene changes to a Walk of very high trees; at the end of the Walk is a view of that part of Windsor, which faces Eton; in the midst of it is a row of small trees, which lead to the Castle-Hill. In the first scene, part of the Town and part of the Hill. In the next, the Terrace Walk, the King's lodgings, and the upper part of St George's chapel, then the keep; and, lastly, that part of the Castle beyond the keep._ _In the air is a vision of the Honours of the Garter; the Knights in procession, and the King under a canopy; beyond this, the upper end of St George's hall._ FAME _rises out of the middle of the Stage, standing on a Globe, on which is the Arms of England: the Globe rests on a Pedestal; on the front of the Pedestal in drawn a Man with a long, lean, pale face, with fiends' wings, and snakes twisted round his body; he is encompassed by several fanatical rebellious heads, who suck poison from him, which runs out of a tap in his side._[11] _Fame._ Renown, assume thy trumpet! From pole to pole resounding Great Albion's name; Great Albion's name shall be The theme of Fame, shall be great Albion's name, Great Albion's name, great Albion's name. Record the garter's glory; A badge for heroes, and for kings to bear; For kings to bear! And swell the immortal story, With songs of Gods, and fit for Gods to hear; And swell the immortal story, With songs of Gods, and fit for Gods to hear; For Gods to hear. _A full Chorus of all the Voices and Instruments; trumpets and hautboys make Ritornello's of all_ FAME _sings; and twenty-four Dancers, all the time in a chorus, and dance to the end of the Opera._ Footnotes: 1. The reader must recollect the orders of the Rump parliament to general Monk, to destroy the gates and portcullises of the city of London; which commission, by the bye, he actually executed, with all the forms of contempt, although, in a day or two after, he took up his quarters in the city, apologized for what had passed, and declared against the parliament. 2. Dr. Titus Oates, the principal witness to the Popish Plot, was accused of unnatural and infamous crimes. He was certainly a most ineffably impudent, perjured villain. 3. The Chacon is supposed by Sir John Hawkins to be of Moorish or Saracenic origin. "The characteristic of the Chacone is a bass, or ground, consisting of four measures, wherein three crotchets make the bar, and the repetition thereof with variations in the several parts, from the beginning to the end of the air, which in respect of its length, has no limit but the discretion of the composer. The whole of the twelfth sonata of the second opera of Corelli is a Chacone." _Hist. of Music_, vol. iv. p. 388. There is also, I am informed, a very celebrated Chacon composed by Jomelli. 4. By the _White Boys_ or _Property Boys_, are meant the adherents of the Duke of Monmouth, who affected great zeal for liberty and property, and assumed white badges, as marks of the innocence of their intentions. When the Duke came to the famous Parliament held at Oxford, "he was met by about 100 Batchellors all in white, except black velvet caps, with white wands in their hands, who divided themselves, and marched as a guard to his person." _Account of the Life of the Duke of Monmouth_, p. 107. In the Duke's tour through the west of England, he was met at Exeter, by "a brave company of brisk stout young men, all cloathed in linen waistcoats and drawers, _white and harmless,_ having not so much as a stick in their hands; they were in number about 900 or 1000." _ibid._ p. 103. See the notes on Absalom and Achitophel. The saints, on the other hand, mean the ancient republican zealots and fanatics, who, though they would willingly have joined in the destruction of Charles, did not wish that Monmouth should succeed him, but aimed at the restoration of the commonwealth. Hence the following dispute betwixt Tyranny and Democracy. 5. The atrocious and blasphemous sentiment in the text was actually used by the fanatics who murdered Sharpe, the archbishop of St Andrews. When they unexpectedly met him during their search for another person, they exclaimed, that "the Lord had delivered him into their hands." 6. It is easy to believe, that, whatever was the, nature of the schemes nourished by Monmouth, Russel, and Essex, they could have no concern with the low and sanguinary cabal of Ramsay, Walcot, and Rumbold, who were all of them old republican officers and commonwealth's men. The flight of Shaftesbury, whose bustling and politic brain had rendered him the sole channel of communication betwixt these parties, as well as the means of uniting them in one common design, threw loose all connection between them; so that each, after his retreat, seems to have acted independantly of, and often in contradiction to the other. 7. The reader may judge, whether some distant and obscure allusion to the trimming politics of Halifax, to whom the Duke of York, our author's patron, was hostile, may not be here insinuated. During the stormy session of his two last parliaments, Charles was much guided by his temporising and camelion-like policy. 8. That is by fire. See next note. 9. The allegory of the one-eyed Archer, and the fire arising betwixt him and Albion, will be made evident by the following extracts from Sprat's history of the Conspiracy. In enumerating the persons engaged in the Rye-house plot, he mentions "Richard Rumbold, maltster, an old army officer, a desperate and bloody Ravaillac." After agitating several schemes for assassinating Charles, the Rye-house was fixed upon as a spot which the king must necessarily pass in his journey trom Newmarket, and which, being a solitary moated house, in the actual occupation of Rumbold, afforded the conspirators facility of previous concealment and subsequent defence. "All other propositions, as subject to far more casualties and hazards, soon gave place to that of the Rye, in Herefordshire, a house then inhabited by the foresaid Richard Rumbold, who proposed that to be the seat of the action, offering himself to command the party, that was to do the work. Him, therefore, as the most daring captain, and by reason of a blemish in one of his eyes, they were afterwards wont, in common discourse, to call Hannibal; often drinking healths to _Hannibal and his boys_, meaning Rumbold and his _hellish crew_. "Immediately upon the coaches coming within the gates and hedges about the house, the conspirators were to divide into several parties; some before, in the habit of labourers, were to overthrow a cart in the narrowest passage, so as to prevent all possibility of escape: others were to fight the guards, Walcot chusing that part upon a punctilio of honour; others were to shoot at the coachman, postillion, and horses; others to aim only at his Majesty's coach, which party was to be under the particular direction of Rumbold himself; the villain declaring beforehand, that, upon that occasion, he would make use of a very good blunderbuss, which was in West's possession, and blasphemously adding, that Ferguson should first consecrate it." ... "But whilst they were thus wholly intent on this barbarous work, and proceeded securely in its contrivance without any the least doubt of a prosperous success, behold! on a sudden, God miraculously disappointed all their hopes and designs, by the terrible conflagration unexpectedly breaking out at Newmarket. In which extraordinary event there was one remarkable passage, that is not so generally taken notice of, as, for the glory of God, and the confusion of his Majesty's enemies, it ought to be. "For, after that the approaching fury of the flames had driven the king out of his own palace, his Majesty, at first, removed into another quarter of the town, remote from the fire, and, as yet, free from any annoyance of smoke and ashes. There his Majesty, finding he might be tolerably well accommodated, had resolved to stay, and continue his recreations as before, till the day first named for his journey back to London. But his Majesty had no sooner made that resolution, when the wind, as conducted by an invisible power from above, presently changed about, and blew the smoke and cinders directly on his new lodging, making them in a moment as untenable as the other. Upon this, his Majesty being put to a new shift, and not finding the like conveniency elsewhere, immediately declared, he would speedily return to Whitehall, as he did; which happening to be several days before the assassins expected him, or their preparations for the Rye were in readiness, it may justly give occasion to all the world to acknowledge, what one of the very conspirators could not but do, _that it was a providential fire._"--Pages 51_ et seq._ The proprietor of the Rye-house (for Rumbold was but a tenant) shocked at the intended purpose, for which it was to have been used, is said to have fired it with his own hand. This is the subject of a poem, called the Loyal Incendiary, or the generous _Boute-feu_. 10. The total ruin of those, who were directly involved in the Rye-house, was little to be regretted, had it not involved the fate of those who were pursuing reform, by means more manly and constitutional,--the fate of Russel, Essex, and Sidney. Rumbold, "the one-eyed archer," fled to Holland, and came to Scotland with Argyle, on his ill-concerted expedition. He was singled out and pursued, after the dispersion of his companions in a skirmish. He defended himself with desperate resolution against two armed peasants, till a third, coming behind him with a pitch-fork, turned off his head-piece, when he was cut down and made prisoner, exclaiming, "Cruel countryman, to use me thus, while my face was to mine enemy." He suffered the doom of a traitor at Edinburgh, and maintained on the scaffold, with inflexible firmness, the principles in which he had lived. He could never believe, he said, that the many of human kind came into the world bridled and saddled, and the few with whips and spurs to ride them. "His rooted ingrained opinion, says Fountainhall, was for a republic against monarchy, to pull down which he thought a duty, and no sin." At his death, he declared, that were every hair of his head a man, he would venture them all in the good old cause. 11. "I must not," says Langbaine, "take the pains to acquaint my reader, that by the man on the pedestal, &c. is meant the late Lord Shaftesbury. I shall not pretend to pass my censure, whether he deserved this usage from our author or no, but leave it to the judgments of statesmen and politicians." Shaftesbury having been overturned in a carriage, received some internal injury which required a constant discharge by an issue in his side. Hence he was ridiculed under the name of _Tapski_. In a mock account of an apparition, stated to have appeared to Lady Gray, it says, "Bid Lord Shaftesbury have a care to his spigot--if he is tapt, all the plot will run out." _Ralph's History_, vol. i. p. 562. from a pamphlet in Lord Somers' collection. There are various allusions to this circumstance in the lampoons of the time. A satire called "The Hypocrite," written by Carryl, concludes thus: His body thus and soul together vie. In vice's empire for the sovereignty; In ulcers shut this does abound in sin, Lazar without and Lucifer within. The silver pipe is no sufficient drain For the corruption of this little man; Who, though he ulcers have in every part, Is no where so corrupt as in his heart. At length, in prosecution of this coarse and unhandsome jest, a sort of vessel with a turn-cock was constructed for holding wine, which was called a Shaftesbury, and used in the taverns of the royal party. EPILOGUE After our AEsop's fable shown to-day, I come to give the moral of the play. Feigned Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace; But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race: Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known; But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown. When heaven made man, to show the work divine, Truth was his image, stamped upon the coin: And when a king is to a God refined, On all he says and does he stamps his mind: This proves a soul without alloy, and pure; Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure. To dare in fields is valour; but how few Dare be so throughly valiant,--to be true! The name of great, let other kings affect: He's great indeed, the prince that is direct. His subjects know him now, and trust him more Than all their kings, and all their laws before. What safety could their public acts afford? Those he can break; but cannot break his word. So great a trust to him alone was due; Well have they trusted whom so well they knew. The saint, who walked on waves, securely trod, While he believed the beck'ning of his God; But when his faith no longer bore him out, Began to sink, as he began to doubt. Let us our native character maintain; 'Tis of our growth, to be sincerely plain. To excel in truth we loyally may strive, Set privilege against prerogative: He plights his faith, and we believe him just; His honour is to promise, ours to trust. Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid, As by a word the world itself was made[1]. Footnote: 1. From this Epilogue we learn, what is confirmed by many proofs elsewhere, that the attribute for which James desired to be distinguished and praised, was that of openness of purpose, and stern undeviating inflexibility of conduct. He scorned to disguise his designs, either upon the religion or the constitution of his country. He forgot that it was only the temporising concessions of his brother which secured his way to the throne, when his exclusion, or a civil war, seemed the only alternatives. His brother was the reed, which bent before the whirlwind, and recovered its erect posture when it had passed away; and James, the inflexible oak, which the first tempest rooted up for ever. * * * * * DON SEBASTIAN. A TRAGEDY. _--Nec tarda senectus Debilitat vires animi, mutatque vigorem._ VIRG. DON SEBASTIAN. The following tragedy is founded upon the adventures supposed to have befallen Sebastian, king of Portugal, after the fatal battle of Alcazar. The reader may be briefly reminded of the memorable expedition of that gallant monarch to Africa, to signalize, against the Moors, his chivalry as a warrior, and his faith as a Christian. The ostensible pretext of invasion was the cause of Muly Mahomet, son of Abdalla, emperor of Morocco; upon whose death, his brother, Muly Moluch, had seized the crown, and driven his nephew into exile. The armies joined battle near Alcazar. The Portuguese, far inferior in number to the Moors, displayed the most desperate valour, and had nearly won the day, when Muly Moluch, who, though almost dying, was present on the field in a litter, fired with shame and indignation, threw himself on horseback, rallied his troops, renewed the combat, and, being carried back to his litter, immediately expired, with his finger placed on his lips, to impress on the chiefs, who surrounded him, the necessity of concealing his death. The Moors, rallied by their sovereign's dying exertion, surrounded, and totally routed, the army of Sebastian. Mahomet, the competitor for the throne of Morocco, was drowned in passing a river in his flight, and Sebastian, as his body was never found, probably perished in the same manner. But where the region of historical certainty ends, that of romantic tradition commences. The Portuguese, to whom the memory of their warlike sovereign was deservedly dear, grasped at the feeble hope which the uncertainty of his fate afforded, and long, with vain fondness, expected the return of Sebastian, to free them from the yoke of Spain. This mysterious termination of a hero's career, as it gave rise to various political intrigues, (for several persons assumed the name and character of Sebastian,) early afforded a subject for exercising the fancy of the dramatist and romance writer. "The Battle of Alcazar[1]" is known to the collectors of old plays; a ballad on the same subject is reprinted in Evans's collection; and our author mentions a French novel on the adventures of Don Sebastian, to which Langbaine also refers. The situation of Dryden, after the Revolution, was so delicate as to require great caution and attention, both in his choice of a subject, and his mode of treating it. His distressed circumstances and lessened income compelled him to come before the public as an author; while the odium attached to the proselyte of a hated religion, and the partizan of a depressed faction, was likely, upon the slightest pretext, to transfer itself from the person of the poet to the labours on which his support depended. He was, therefore, not only obliged to chuse a theme, which had no offence in it, and to treat it in a manner which could not admit of misconstruction, but also so to exert the full force of his talents, as, by the conspicuous pre-eminence of his genius, to bribe prejudice and silence calumny. An observing reader will accordingly discover, throughout the following tragedy, symptoms of minute finishing, and marks of accurate attention, which, in our author's better days, he deigned not to bestow upon productions, to which his name alone was then sufficient to give weight and privilege. His choice of a subject was singularly happy: the name of Sebastian awaked historical recollections and associations, favourable to the character of his hero; while the dark uncertainty of his fate removed all possibility of shocking the audience by glaring offence against the majesty of historical truth. The subject has, therefore, all the advantages of a historical play, without the detects, which either a rigid coincidence with history, or a violent contradiction of known truth, seldom fail to bring along with them. Dryden appears from his preface to have been fully sensible of this; and he has not lost the advantage of a happy subject by treating it with the carelessness he sometimes allowed himself to indulge. The characters in "Don Sebastian" are contrasted with singular ability and judgment. Sebastian, high-spirited and fiery; the soul of royal and military honour; the soldier and the king; almost embodies the idea which the reader forms at the first mention of his name. Dorax, to whom he is so admirable a contrast, is one of those characters whom the strong hand of adversity has wrested from their natural bias; and perhaps no equally vivid picture can be found, of a subject so awfully interesting. Born with a strong tendency to all that was honourable and virtuous, the very excess of his virtues became vice, when his own ill fate, and Sebastian's injustice, had driven him into exile. By comparing, as Dryden has requested, the character of Dorax, in the fifth act, with that he maintains in the former part of the play, the difference may be traced betwixt his natural virtues, and the vices engrafted on them by headlong passion and embittering calamity. There is no inconsistence in the change which takes place after his scene with Sebastian; as was objected by those, whom the poet justly terms, "the more ignorant sort of creatures." It is the same picture in a new light; the same ocean in tempest and in calm; the same traveller, whom sunshine has induced to abandon his cloak, which the storm only forced him to wrap more closely around him. The principal failing of Dorax is the excess of pride, which renders each supposed wound to his honour more venomously acute; yet he is not devoid of gentler affections, though even in indulging these the hardness of his character is conspicuous. He loves Violante, but that is a far subordinate feeling to his affection for Sebastian. Indeed, his love appears so inferior to his loyal devotion to his king, that, unless to gratify the taste of the age, I see little reason for its being introduced at all. It is obvious he was much more jealous of the regard of his sovereign, than of his mistress; he never mentions Violante till the scene of explanation with Sebastian; and he appears hardly to have retained a more painful recollection of his disappointment in that particular, than of the general neglect and disgrace he had sustained at the court of Lisbon. The last stage of a virtuous heart, corroded into evil by wounded pride, has been never more forcibly displayed than in the character of Dorax. When once induced to take the fatal step which degraded him in his own eyes, all his good affections seem to be converted into poison. The religion, which displays itself in the fifth act in his arguments against suicide, had, in his efforts to justify his apostacy, or at least to render it a matter of no moment, been exchanged for sentiments approaching, perhaps to atheism, certainly to total scepticism. His passion for Violante is changed into contempt and hatred for her sex, which he expresses in the coarsest terms. His feelings of generosity, and even of humanity, are drowned in the gloomy and stern misanthropy, which has its source in the self-discontent that endeavours to wreak itself upon others. This may be illustrated by his unfeeling behaviour, while Alvarez and Antonio, well known to him in former days, approach, and draw the deadly lot, which ratifies their fate. No yielding of compassion, no recollection of former friendship, has power to alter the cold and sardonic sarcasm with which he sketches their characters, and marks their deportment in that awful moment. Finally, the zealous attachment of Alonzo for his king, which, in its original expression, partakes of absolute devotion, is changed, by the circumstances of Dorax, into an irritated and frantic jealousy, which he mistakes for hatred; and which, in pursuing the destruction of its object, is almost more inveterate than hatred itself. Nothing has survived of the original Alonzo at the opening of the piece, except the gigantic passion which has caused his ruin. This character is drawn on a large scale, and in a heroic proportion; but it is so true to nature, that many readers must have lamented, even within the circle of domestic acquaintance, instances of feelings hardened, and virtues perverted, where a high spirit has sustained severe and unjust neglect and disgrace. The whole demeanour of this exquisite character suits the original sketch. From "the long stride and sullen port," by which Benducar distinguishes him at a distance, to the sullen stubbornness with which he obeys, or the haughty contempt with which he resists, the commands of the peremptory tyrant under whom he had taken service, all announce the untamed pride which had robbed Dorax of virtue, and which yet, when Benducar would seduce him into a conspiracy, and in his conduct towards Sebastian, assumes the port and dignity of virtue herself. In all his conduct and bearing, there is that mixed feeling and impulse, which constitutes the real spring of human action. The true motive of Alonzo in saving Sebastian, is not purely that of honourable hatred, which he proposes to himself; for to himself every man endeavours to appear consistent, and readily find arguments to prove to himself that he is so. Neither is his conduct to be ascribed altogether to the gentler feelings of loyal and friendly affection, relenting at the sight of his sovereign's ruin, and impending death. It is the result of a mixture of these opposite sensations, clashing against each other like two rivers at their conflux, yet urging their united course down the same channel. Actuated by a mixture of these feelings, Dorax meets Sebastian; and the art of the poet is displayed in that admirable scene, by suggesting a natural motive to justify to the injured subject himself the change of the course of his feelings. As his jealousy of Sebastian's favour, and resentment of his unjust neglect, was chiefly founded on the avowed preference which the king had given to Henriquez, the opportune mention of his rival's death, by removing the cause of that jealousy, gives the renegade an apology to his own pride, for throwing himself at the feet of that very sovereign, whom a moment before he was determined to force to combat. They are little acquainted with human passions, at least have only witnessed their operations among men of common minds, who doubt, that at the height of their very spring-tide, they are often most susceptible of sudden changes; revolutions, which seem to those who have not remarked how nearly the most opposite feelings are allied and united, the most extravagant and unaccountable. Muly Moluch is an admirable specimen of that very frequent theatrical character,--a stage tyrant. He is fierce and boisterous enough to be sufficiently terrible and odious, and that without much rant, considering he is an infidel Soldan, who, from the ancient deportment of Mahomed and Termagaunt, as they appeared in the old Mysteries, might claim a prescriptive right to tear a passion to tatters. Besides, the Moorish emperor has fine glances of savage generosity, and that free, unconstrained, and almost noble openness, the only good quality, perhaps, which a consciousness of unbounded power may encourage in a mind so firm as not to be totally depraved by it. The character of Muly Moluch, like that of Morat, in "Aureng-Zebe," to which it bears a strong resemblance, was admirably represented by Kynaston; who had, says Cibber, "a fierce lion-like majesty in his port and utterance, that gave the spectator a kind of trembling admiration." It is enough to say of Benducar, that the cool, fawning, intriguing, and unprincipled statesman, is fully developed in his whole conduct; and of Alvarez, that the little he has to say and do, is so said and done, as not to disgrace his common-place character of the possessor of the secret on which the plot depends; for it may be casually observed, that the depositary of such a clew to the catastrophe, though of the last importance to the plot, is seldom himself of any interest whatever. The haughty and high-spirited Almeyda is designed by the author as the counterpart of Sebastian. She breaks out with the same violence, I had almost said fury, and frequently discovers a sort of kindred sentiment, intended to prepare the reader for the unfortunate discovery, that she is the sister of the Portuguese monarch. Of the diction, Dr Johnson has said, with meagre commendation, that it has "some sentiments which leave a strong impression," and "others of excellence, universally acknowledged." This, even when the admiration of the scene betwixt Dorax and Sebastian has been sanctioned by that great critic, seems scanty applause for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of Dryden's dramatic works. The reader will be disposed to look for more unqualified praise, when such a poet was induced, by every pressing consideration, to combine, in one effort, the powers of his mighty genius, and the fruits of his long theatrical experience: Accordingly, Shakespeare laid aside, it will be perhaps difficult to point out a play containing more animatory incident, impassioned language, and beautiful description, than "Don Sebastian." Of the former, the scene betwixt Dorax and the king, had it been the only one ever Dryden wrote, would have been sufficient to insure his immortality. There is not,--no, perhaps, not even in Shakespeare,--an instance where the chord, which the poet designed should vibrate, is more happily struck; strains there are of a higher mood, but not more correctly true; in evidence of which, we have known those, whom distresses of a gentler nature were unable to move, feel their stubborn feelings roused and melted by the injured pride and deep repentance of Dorax. The burst of anguish with which he answers the stern taunt of Sebastian, is one of those rare, but natural instances, in which high-toned passion assumes a figurative language, because all that is familiar seems inadequate to express its feelings: _Dor._ Thou hast dared To tell me, what I durst not tell myself: I durst not think that I was spurned, and live; And live to hear it boasted to my face. All my long avarice of honour lost, Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age! Has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream? He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass, And gather pebbles from the naked ford. Give me my love, my honour; give them back-- Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it! But I will not dwell on the beauties of this scene. If any one is incapable of relishing it, he may safely conclude, that nature has not merely denied him that rare gift, poetical taste, but common powers of comprehending the ordinary feelings of humanity. The love scene, betwixt Sebastian and Almeyda, is more purely conceived, and expressed with more reference to sentiment, than is common with our author. The description which Dorax gives of Sebastian, before his appearance, coming from a mortal enemy, at least from one whose altered love was as envenomed as hatred, is a grand preparation for the appearance of the hero. In many of the slighter descriptive passages, we recognize the poet by those minute touches, which a mind susceptible of poetic feeling is alone capable of bringing out. The approach of the emperor, while the conspirators are caballing, is announced by Orchan, with these picturesque circumstances: I see the blaze of torches from afar, And hear the trampling of thick-beating feet-- This way they move.-- The following account, given by the slave sent to observe what passed in the castle of Dorax, believed to be dead, or dying, is equally striking: _Haly._ Two hours I warily have watched his palace: All doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad; Some officers, with striding haste, past in; While others outward went on quick dispatch. Sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within; Then cries confused, and a joint clamour followed; Then lights went gliding by, from room to room, And shot like thwarting meteors cross the house. Not daring further to inquire, I came With speed to bring you this imperfect news. The description of the midnight insurrection of the rabble is not less impressive: _Ham._ What you wish: The streets are thicker in this noon of night, Than at the mid-day sun: A drouzy horror Sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake: All crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm, The bees drive out upon each others backs, T'imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news: Their busy captain runs the weary round To whisper orders; and, commanding silence, Makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs. These illustrations are designedly selected from the parts of the lower characters, because they at once evince the diligence and success with which Dryden has laboured even the subordinate points of this tragedy. "Don Sebastian" has been weighed, with reference to its tragic merits, against "Love for Love;" and one or other is universally allowed to be the first of Dryden's dramatic performances. To the youth of both sexes the latter presents the most pleasing subject of emotion; but to those whom age has rendered incredulous upon the romantic effects of love, and who do not fear to look into the recesses of the human heart, when agitated by darker and more stubborn passions, "Don Sebastian" offers a far superior source of gratification. To point out the blemishes of so beautiful a tragedy, is a painful, though a necessary, task. The style, here and there, exhibits marks of a reviving taste for those frantic bursts of passion, which our author has himself termed the "Dalilahs of the theatre." The first speech of Sebastian has been often noticed as an extravagant rant, more worthy of Maximin, or Almanzor, than of a character drawn by our author in his advanced years, and chastened taste: I beg no pity for this mouldering clay; For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth: If burnt and scatter'd in the air, the winds, That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns. The reader's discernment will discover some similar extravagancies in the language of Almeyda and the Emperor. It is a separate objection, that the manners of the age and country are not adhered to. Sebastian, by disposition a crusading knight-errant, devoted to religion and chivalry, becomes, in the hands of Dryden, merely a gallant soldier and high-spirited prince, such as existed in the poet's own days. But, what is worse, the manners of Mahometans are shockingly violated. Who ever heard of human sacrifices, or of any sacrifices, being offered up to Mahomet[2]; and when were his followers able to use the classical and learned allusions which occur throughout the dialogue! On this last topic Addison makes the following observations, in the "Guardian," No. 110. "I have now Mr Dryden's "Don Sebastian" before me, in which I find frequent allusions to ancient poetry, and the old mythology of the heathens. It is not very natural to suppose a king of Portugal would be borrowing thoughts out of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," when he talked even to those of his own court; but to allude to these Roman fables, when he talks to an emperor of Barbary, seems very extraordinary. But observe how he defies him out of the classics in the following lines: Why didst not thou engage me man to man, And try the virtue of that Gorgon face, To stare me into statue? "Almeyda, at the same time, is more book-learned than Don Sebastian. She plays an Hydra upon the Emperor, that is full as good as the Gorgon: O that I had the fruitful heads of Hydra, That one might bourgeon where another fell! Still would I give thee work, still, still, thou tyrant, And hiss thee with the last. "She afterwards, in allusion to Hercules, bids him 'lay down the lion's skin, and take the distaff;' and, in the following speech, utters her passion still more learnedly: No; were we joined, even though it were in death, Our bodies burning in one funeral pile, The prodigy of Thebes would be renewed, And my divided flame should break from thine. "The emperor of Barbary shews himself acquainted with the Roman poets as well as either of his prisoners, and answers the foregoing speech in the same classic strain: Serpent, I will engender poison with thee: Our offspring, like the seed of dragon's teeth, Shall issue armed, and fight themselves to death. "Ovid seems to have been Muley-Moloch's favourite author; witness the lines that follow: She, still inexorable, still imperious, And loud, as if, like Bacchus, born in thunder. "I shall conclude my remarks on his part with that poetical complaint of his being in love; and leave my reader to consider, how prettily it would sound in the mouth of an emperor of Morocco: The god of love once more has shot his fires Into my soul, and my whole heart receives him. "Muley Zeydan is as ingenious a man as his brother Muley Moloch; as where he hints at the story of Castor and Pollux: May we ne'er meet; For, like the twins of Leda, when I mount, He gallops down the skies. "As for the Mufti, we will suppose that he was bred up a scholar, and not only versed in the law of Mahomet, but acquainted with all kinds of polite learning. For this reason he is not at all surprised when Dorax calls him a Phaeton in one place, and in another tells him he is like Archimedes. "The Mufti afterwards mentions Ximenes, Albornoz, and cardinal Wolsey, by name. The poet seems to think, he may make every person, in his play, know as much as himself, and talk as well as he could have done on the same occasion. At least, I believe, every reader will agree with me, that the above-mentioned sentiments, to which I might have added several others, would have been better suited to the court of Augustus than that of Muley Moloch. I grant they are beautiful in themselves, and much more so in that noble language, which was peculiar to this great poet. I only observe, that they are improper for the persons who make use of them." The catastrophe of the tragedy may be also censured, not only on the grounds objected to that of "OEdipus," but because it does not naturally flow from the preceding events, and opens, in the fifth act, a new set of persons, and a train of circumstances, unconnected with the preceding action. In the concluding scene, it was remarked, by the critics, that there is a want of pure taste in the lovers dwelling more upon the pleasures than the horrors of their incestuous connection. Of the lighter scenes, which were intended for comic, Dr Johnson has said, "they are such as that age did not probably commend, and as the present would not endure." Dryden has remarked, with self-complacency, the art with which they are made to depend upon the serious business. This has not, however, the merit of novelty; being not unlike the connection between the tragic and comic scenes of the "Spanish Friar." The persons introduced have also some resemblance; though the gaiety of Antonio is far more gross than that of Lorenzo, and Morayma is a very poor copy of Elvira. It is rather surprising, that when a gay libertine was to be introduced, Dryden did not avail himself of a real character, the English Stukely; a wild gallant, who, after spending a noble fortune, became the leader of a band of Italian Condottieri, engaged in the service of Sebastian, and actually fell in the battle of Alcazar. Collier complains, and with very good reason, that, in the character of the Mufti, Dryden has seized an opportunity to deride and calumniate the priesthood of every religion; an opportunity which, I am sorry to say, he seldom fails to use with unjustifiable inveteracy. The rabble scenes were probably given, as our author himself says of that in Cleomenes, "to gratify the more barbarous part of the audience." Indeed, to judge from the practice of the drama at this time, the representation of a riot upon the stage seems to have had the same charms for the popular part of the English audience, which its reality always possesses in the streets. Notwithstanding the excellence of this tragedy, it appears to have been endured, rather than applauded, at its first representation; although, being judiciously curtailed, it soon became a great favourite with the public[3]; and, omitting the comic scenes, may be again brought forward with advantage, when the public shall be tired of children and of show. The tragedy of "Don Sebastian" was acted and printed in 1690. Footnotes: 1. "The Battle of Alcazar, with Captain Stukely's death, acted by the Lord High Admiral's servants, 1594," 4to. Baker thinks Dryden might have taken the hint of "Don Sebastian" from this old play. Shakespeare drew from it some of the bouncing rants of Pistol, as, "Feed, and be fat; my fair Callipolis," &c. 2. In a Zambra dance, introduced in the "Conquest of Granada," our author had previously introduced the Moors bowing to the image of Jupiter; a gross solecism, hardly more pardonable, as Langbaine remarks, than the introduction of a pistol in the hand of Demetrius, a successor of Alexander the Great, which Dryden has justly censured. 3. Langbaine says, it was acted "with great applause;" but this must refer to its reception after the first night; for the author's own expressions, that "the audience endured it with much patience, and were weary with much good nature and silence," exclude the idea of a brilliant reception on the first representation. See the beginning of the Preface. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP, EARL OF LEICESTER, &c.[1] Far be it from me, my most noble lord, to think, that any thing which my meanness can produce, should be worthy to be offered to your patronage; or that aught which I can say of you should recommend you farther to the esteem of good men in this present age, or to the veneration which will certainly be paid you by posterity. On the other side, I must acknowledge it a great presumption in me, to make you this address; and so much the greater, because by the common suffrage even of contrary parties, you have been always regarded as one of the first persons of the age, and yet not one writer has dared to tell you so; whether we have been all conscious to ourselves that it was a needless labour to give this notice to mankind, as all men are ashamed to tell stale news; or that we were justly diffident of our own performances, as even Cicero is observed to be in awe when he writes to Atticus; where, knowing himself over-matched in good sense, and truth of knowledge, he drops the gaudy train of words, and is no longer the vain-glorious orator. From whatever reason it may be, I am the first bold offender of this kind: I have broken down the fence, and ventured into the holy grove. How I may be punished for my profane attempt, I know not; but I wish it may not be of ill omen to your lordship: and that a crowd of bad writers do not rush into the quiet of your recesses after me. Every man in all changes of government, which have been, or may possibly arrive, will agree, that I could not have offered my incense, where it could be so well deserved. For you, my lord, are secure in your own merit; and all parties, as they rise uppermost, are sure to court you in their turns; it is a tribute which has ever been paid your virtue. The leading men still bring their bullion to your mint, to receive the stamp of their intrinsic value, that they may afterwards hope to pass with human kind. They rise and fall in the variety of revolutions, and are sometimes great, and therefore wise in men's opinions, who must court them for their interest. But the reputation of their parts most commonly follows their success; few of them are wise, but as they are in power; because indeed, they have no sphere of their own, but, like the moon in the Copernican system of the world, are whirled about by the motion of a greater planet. This it is to be ever busy; neither to give rest to their fellow-creatures, nor, which is more wretchedly ridiculous, to themselves; though, truly, the latter is a kind of justice, and giving mankind a due revenge, that they will not permit their own hearts to be at quiet, who disturb the repose of all beside them. Ambitious meteors! how willing they are to set themselves upon the wing, and taking every occasion of drawing upward to the sun, not considering that they have no more time allowed them for their mounting, than the short revolution of a day; and that when the light goes from them, they are of necessity to fall. How much happier is he, (and who he is I need not say, for there is but one phoenix in an age) who, centering on himself, remains immoveable, and smiles at the madness of the dance about him? he possesses the midst, which is the portion of safety and content. He will not be higher, because he needs it not; but by the prudence of that choice, he puts it out of fortune's power to throw him down. It is confest, that if he had not so been born, he might have been too high for happiness; but not endeavouring to ascend, he secures the native height of his station from envy, and cannot descend from what he is, because he depends not on another. What a glorious character was this once in Rome! I should say, in Athens; when, in the disturbances of a state as mad as ours, the wise Pomponius transported all the remaining wisdom and virtue of his country into the sanctuary of peace and learning. But I would ask the world, (for you, my lord, are too nearly concerned to judge this cause) whether there may not yet be found a character of a noble Englishman, equally shining with that illustrious Roman? Whether I need to name a second Atticus? or whether the world has not already prevented me, and fixed it there, without my naming? Not a second, with a _longo sed proximus intervallo_; not a young Marcellus, flattered by a poet into the resemblance of the first, with a _frons laeta parum, et dejecto lumina vultu_, and the rest that follows, _si qua fata aspera rumpas, tu Marcellus eris_; but a person of the same stamp and magnitude, who owes nothing to the former, besides the word Roman, and the superstition of reverence, devolving on him by the precedency of eighteen hundred years; one who walks by him with equal paces, and shares the eyes of beholders with him; one who had been first, had he first lived; and, in spite of doating veneration, is still his equal: both of them born of noble families, in unhappy ages of change and tumult; both of them retiring from affairs of state; yet not leaving the commonwealth, till it had left itself; but never returning to public business, when they had once quitted it, though courted by the heads of either party. But who would trust the quiet of their lives with the extravagancies of their countrymen, when they are just in the giddiness of their turning; when the ground was tottering under them at every moment; and none could guess whether the next heave of the earthquake would settle them on the first foundation, or swallow it? Both of them knew mankind exactly well, for both of them began that study in themselves, and there they found the best part of human composition; the worst they learned by long experience of the folly, ignorance, and immorality of most beside them. Their philosophy, on both sides, was not wholly speculative, for that is barren, and produces nothing but vain ideas of things which cannot possibly be known, or, if they could, yet would only terminate in the understanding; but it was a noble, vigorous and practical philosophy, which exerted itself in all the offices of pity, to those who were unfortunate, and deserved not so to be. The friend was always more considered by them than the cause; and an Octavius, or an Antony in distress, were relieved by them, as well as a Brutus or a Cassius; for the lowermost party, to a noble mind, is ever the fittest object of good-will. The eldest of them, I will suppose, for his honour, to have been of the academic sect, neither dogmatist nor stoick; if he were not, I am sure he ought, in common justice, to yield the precedency to his younger brother. For stiffness of opinion is the effect of pride, and not of philosophy; it is a miserable presumption of that knowledge which human nature is too narrow to contain; and the ruggedness of a stoick is only a silly affectation of being a god,--to wind himself up by pullies to an insensibility of suffering, and, at the same time, to give the lie to his own experience, by saying he suffers not, what he knows he feels. True philosophy is certainly of a more pliant nature, and more accommodated to human use; _Homo sum, humani a me nihil alienum puto._ A wise man will never attempt an impossibility; and such it is to strain himself beyond the nature of his being, either to become a deity, by being above suffering, or to debase himself into a stock or stone, by pretending not to feel it. To find in ourselves the weaknesses and imperfections of our wretched kind, is surely the most reasonable step we can make towards the compassion of our fellow-creatures. I could give examples of this kind in the second Atticus. In every turn of state, without meddling on either side, he has always been favourable and assisting to opprest merit. The praises which were given by a great poet to the late queen-mother, on her rebuilding Somerset Palace, one part of which was fronting to the mean houses on the other side of the water, are as justly his: For the distrest and the afflicted lie Most in his thoughts, and always in his eye[2]. Neither has he so far forgotten a poor inhabitant of his suburbs, whose best prospect is on the garden of Leicester House, but that more than once he has been offering him his patronage, to reconcile him to a world, of which his misfortunes have made him weary[3]. There is another Sidney still remaining, though there can never be another Spenser to deserve the favour. But one Sidney gave his patronage to the applications of a poet; the other offered it unasked. Thus, whether as a second Atticus, or a second Sir Philip Sidney, the latter in all respects will not have the worse of the comparison; and if he will take up with the second place, the world will not so far flatter his modesty, as to seat him there, unless it be out of a deference of manners, that he may place himself where he pleases at his own table. I may therefore safely conclude, that he, who, by the consent of all men, bears so eminent a character, will out of his inborn nobleness forgive the presumption of this address. It is an unfinished picture, I confess, but the lines and features are so like, that it cannot be mistaken for any other; and without writing any name under it, every beholder must cry out, at first sight,--this was designed for Atticus; but the bad artist has cast too much of him into shades. But I have this excuse, that even the greatest masters commonly fall short of the best faces. They may flatter an indifferent beauty; but the excellencies of nature can have no right done to them; for there both the pencil and pen are overcome by the dignity of the subject; as our admirable Waller has expressed it, The heroe's race transcends the poet's thought. There are few in any age who can bear the load of a dedication; for where praise is undeserved, it is satire; though satire on folly is now no longer a scandal to any one person, where a whole age is dipt together. Yet I had rather undertake a multitude one way, than a single Atticus the other; for it is easier to descend than it is to climb. I should have gone ashamed out of the world, if I had not at least attempted this address, which I have long thought owing: and if I had never attempted, I might have been vain enough to think I might have succeeded in it. Now I have made the experiment, and have failed through my unworthiness, I may rest satisfied, that either the adventure is not to be atchieved, or that it is reserved for some other hand. Be pleased, therefore, since the family of the Attici is and ought to be above the common forms of concluding letters, that I may take my leave in the words of Cicero to the first of them: _Me, O Pomponi, valde paenitet vivere: tantum te oro, ut quoniam me ipse semper amasti, ut eodem amore sis; ego nimirum idem sum. Inimici mei mea mihi non meipsum ademerunt. Cura, Attice, ut valeas._ Dabam. Cal. Jan. 1690. Footnotes: 1. In order to escape as far as possible the odium, which after the Revolution was attached to Dryden's politics and religion, he seems occasionally to have sought for patrons amongst those Nobles of opposite principles, whom moderation, or love of literature, rendered superior to the suggestions of party rancour; or, as he himself has expressed it in the Dedication of "Amphitryon," who, though of a contrary opinion themselves, blamed him not for adhering to a lost cause, and judging for himself what he could not chuse but judge. Philip Sidney, the third earl of Leicester, had taken an active part against the king in the civil wars, had been named one of his judges, though he never look his seat among the regicides, and had been one of Cromwell's Council of State. He was brother of the famous Algernon Sidney, and although retired from party strife, during the violent contests betwixt the Whigs and Tories in 1682-3, there can be no doubt which way his inclinations leaned. He died 6th March, 1696-7, aged more than eighty years. Mr Malone has strongly censured the strain of this Dedication, because it represents Leicester as abstracted from parties and public affairs, notwithstanding his active share in the civil wars. Yet Dryden was not obliged to draw the portrait of his patron from his conduct thirty years before; and if Leicester's character was to be taken from the latter part of his life, surely the praise of moderation is due to him, who, during the factious contests of Charles II's. reign, in which his own brother made so conspicuous a figure, maintained the neutrality of Pomponius Atticus. 2. When Henrietta Maria, widow of Charles I. and queen-dowager of England, visited her son after the Restoration, she chose Somerset-House for her residence, and added all the buildings fronting the river. Cowley, whom she had long patronised, composed a poem on the "Queen's repairing Somerset-House," to which our author refers. Mr Malone's accuracy has detected a slight alteration in the verses, as quoted by Dryden, and as written by Cowley: If any prouder virtuoso's sense At that part of my prospect take offence, By which the meaner cabanes are descried Of my imperial river's humbler side; If they call that a blemish, let them know, God and my godlike mistress think not so; For the distressed and the afflicted lie Most in _their care_, and always in _their_ eye. 3. Our poet's house was in Gerard-Street, looking upon the gardens of Leicester-House. THE PREFACE. Whether it happened through a long disuse of writing, that I forgot the usual compass of a play, or that, by crowding it with characters and incidents, I put a necessity upon myself of lengthening the main action, I know not; but the first day's audience sufficiently convinced me of my error, and that the poem was insupportably too long. It is an ill ambition of us poets, to please an audience with more than they can bear; and supposing that we wrote as well as vainly we imagine ourselves to write, yet we ought to consider, that no man can bear to be long tickled. There is a nauseousness in a city-feast, when we are to sit four hours after we are cloyed. I am therefore, in the first place, to acknowledge, with all manner of gratitude, their civility, who were pleased to endure it with so much patience; to be weary with so much good-nature and silence; and not to explode an entertainment which was designed to please them, or discourage an author, whose misfortunes have once more brought him, against his will, upon the stage. While I continue in these bad circumstances, (and, truly, I see very little probability of coming out) I must be obliged to write; and if I may still hope for the same kind usage, I shall the less repent of that hard necessity. I write not this out of any expectation to be pitied, for I have enemies enow to wish me yet in a worse condition; but give me leave to say, that if I can please by writing, as I shall endeavour it, the town may be somewhat obliged to my misfortunes for a part of their diversion. Having been longer acquainted with the stage than any poet now living, and having observed how difficult it was to please; that the humours of comedy were almost spent; that love and honour (the mistaken topics of tragedy) were quite worn out; that the theatres could not support their charges; that the audience forsook them; that young men, without learning, set up for judges, and that they talked loudest, who understood the least; all these discouragements had not only weaned me from the stage, but had also given me a loathing of it. But enough of this: the difficulties continue; they increase; and I am still condemned to dig in those exhausted mines. Whatever fault I next commit, rest assured it shall not be that of too much length: Above twelve hundred lines have been cut off from this tragedy since it was first delivered to the actors. They were indeed so judiciously lopped by Mr Betterton, to whose care and excellent action I am equally obliged, that the connection of the story was not lost; but, on the other side, it was impossible to prevent some part of the action from being precipitated, and coming on without that due preparation which is required to all great events: as, in particular, that of raising the mobile, in the beginning of the fourth act, which a man of Benducar's cool character could not naturally attempt, without taking all those precautions, which he foresaw would be necessary to render his design successful. On this consideration, I have replaced those lines through the whole poem, and thereby restored it to that clearness of conception, and (if I may dare to say it) that lustre and masculine vigour, in which it was first written. It is obvious to every understanding reader, that the most poetical parts, which are descriptions, images, similitudes, and moral sentences, are those which of necessity were to be pared away, when the body was swollen into too large a bulk for the representation of the stage. But there is a vast difference betwixt a public entertainment on the theatre, and a private reading in the closet: In the first, we are confined to time; and though we talk not by the hour-glass, yet the watch often drawn out of the pocket warns the actors that their audience is weary; in the last, every reader is judge of his own convenience; he can take up the book and lay it down at his pleasure, and find out those beauties of propriety in thought and writing, which escaped him in the tumult and hurry of representing. And I dare boldly promise for this play, that in the roughness of the numbers and cadences, (which I assure was not casual, but so designed) you will see somewhat more masterly arising to your view, than in most, if not any, of my former tragedies. There is a more noble daring in the figures, and more suitable to the loftiness of the subject; and, besides this, some newnesses of English, translated from the beauties of modern tongues, as well as from the elegancies of the Latin; and here and there some old words are sprinkled, which, for their significance and sound, deserved not to be antiquated; such as we often find in Sallust amongst the Roman authors, and in Milton's "Paradise" amongst ours; though perhaps the latter, instead of sprinkling, has dealt them with too free a hand, even sometimes to the obscuring of his sense. As for the story, or plot, of the tragedy, it is purely fiction; for I take it up where the history has laid it down. We are assured by all writers of those times, that Sebastian, a young prince of great courage and expectation, undertook that war, partly upon a religious account, partly at the solicitation of Muley Mahomet, who had been driven out of his dominions by Abdelmelech, or, as others call him, Muley Moluch, his nigh kinsman, who descended from the same family of Xeriffs, whose fathers, Hamet and Mahomet, had conquered that empire with joint forces, and shared it betwixt them after their victory; that the body of Don Sebastian was never found in the field of battle, which gave occasion for many to believe, that he was not slain[1]; that some years after, when the Spaniards, with a pretended title, by force of arms, had usurped the crown of Portugal from the house of Braganza, a certain person, who called himself Don Sebastian, and had all the marks of his body and features of his face, appeared at Venice, where he was owned by some of his countrymen; but being seized by the Spaniards, was first imprisoned, then sent to the gallies, and at last put to death in private. It is most certain, that the Portuguese expected his return for almost an age together after that battle, which is at least a proof of their extreme love to his memory; and the usage they had from their new conquerors, might possibly make them so extravagant in their hopes and wishes for their old master[2]. This ground-work the history afforded me, and I desire no better to build a play upon; for where the event of a great action is left doubtful, there the poet is left master. He may raise what he pleases on that foundation, provided he makes it of a piece, and according to the rule of probability. From hence I was only obliged, that Sebastian should return to Portugal no more; but at the same time I had him at my own disposal, whether to bestow him in Afric, or in any other corner of the world, or to have closed the tragedy with his death; and the last of these was certainly the most easy, but for the same reason the least artful; because, as I have somewhere said, the poison and the dagger are still at hand to butcher a hero, when a poet wants the brains to save him. It being therefore only necessary, according to the laws of the drama, that Sebastian should no more be seen upon the throne, I leave it for the world to judge, whether or no I have disposed of him according to art, or have bungled up the conclusion of his adventure. In the drawing of his character, I forgot not piety, which any one may observe to be one principal ingredient of it, even so far as to be a habit in him; though I shew him once to be transported from it by the violence of a sudden passion, to endeavour a self-murder. This being presupposed, that he was religious, the horror of his incest, though innocently committed, was the best reason which the stage could give for hindering his return. It is true, I have no right to blast his memory with such a crime; but declaring it to be fiction, I desire my audience to think it no longer true, than while they are seeing it represented; for that once ended, he may be a saint, for aught I know, and we have reason to presume he is. On this supposition, it was unreasonable to have killed him; for the learned Mr Rymer has well observed, that in all punishments we are to regulate ourselves by poetical justice; and according to those measures, an involuntary sin deserves not death; from whence it follows, that to divorce himself from the beloved object, to retire into a desert, and deprive himself of a throne, was the utmost punishment which a poet could inflict, as it was also the utmost reparation which Sebastian could make. For what relates to Almeyda, her part is wholly fictitious. I know it is the surname of a noble family in Portugal, which was very instrumental in the restoration of Don John de Braganza, father to the most illustrious and most pious princess, our queen-dowager. The French author of a novel, called "Don Sebastian," has given that name to an African lady of his own invention, and makes her sister to Muley Mahomet; but I have wholly changed the accidents, and borrowed nothing but the supposition, that she was beloved by the king of Portugal. Though, if I had taken the whole story, and wrought it up into a play, I might have done it exactly according to the practice of almost all the ancients, who were never accused of being plagiaries for building their tragedies on known fables. Thus, Augustus Caesar wrote an "Ajax," which was not the less his own, because Euripides had written a play before him on that subject. Thus, of late years, Corneille writ an "OEdipus" after Sophocles; and I have designed one after him, which I wrote with Mr Lee; yet neither the French poet stole from the Greek, nor we from the Frenchman. It is the contrivance, the new turn, and new characters, which alter the property, and make it ours. The _materia poetica_ is as common to all writers, as the _materia medica_ to all physicians. Thus, in our Chronicles, Daniel's history is still his own, though Matthew Paris, Stow, and Hollingshed writ before him; otherwise we must have been content with their dull relations, if a better pen had not been allowed to come after them, and writ his own account after a new and better manner. I must further declare freely, that I have not exactly kept to the three mechanic rules of unity. I knew them, and had them in my eye, but followed them only at a distance; for the genius of the English cannot bear too regular a play: we are given to variety, even to a debauchery of pleasure. My scenes are therefore sometimes broken, because my underplot required them so to be, though the general scene remains,--of the same castle; and I have taken the time of two days, because the variety of accidents, which are here represented, could not naturally be supposed to arrive in one: but to gain a greater beauty, it is lawful for a poet to supersede a less. I must likewise own, that I have somewhat deviated from the known history, in the death of Muley Moluch, who, by all relations, died of a fever in the battle, before his army had wholly won the field; but if I have allowed him another day of life, it was because I stood in need of so shining a character of brutality as I have given him; which is indeed the same with that of the present emperor Muley-Ishmael, as some of our English officers, who have been in his court, have credibly informed me. I have been listening--what objections had been made against the conduct of the play; but found them all so trivial, that if I should name them, a true critic would imagine that I played booty, and only raised up phantoms for myself to conquer. Some are pleased to say--the writing is dull; but, _aetatem habet, de se loquatur._ Others, that the double poison is unnatural: let the common received opinion, and Ausonius his famous epigram, answer that[3]. Lastly, a more ignorant sort of creatures than either of the former maintain, that the character of Dorax is not only unnatural, but inconsistent with itself: let them read the play, and think again; and if yet they are not satisfied, cast their eyes on that chapter of the wise Montaigne, which is intitled, _De l'Inconstance des Actions humaines_. A longer reply is what those cavillers deserve not; but I will give them and their fellows to understand, that the earl of Dorset was pleased to read the tragedy twice over before it was acted, and did me the favour to send me word, that I had written beyond any of my former plays, and that he was displeased any thing should be cut away. If I have not reason to prefer his single judgment to a whole faction, let the world be judge; for the opposition is the same with that of Lucan's hero against an army; _concurrere bellum, atque virum_. I think I may modestly conclude, that whatever errors there may be, either in the design, or writing of this play, they are not those which have been objected to it. I think also, that I am not yet arrived to the age of doting; and that I have given so much application to this poem, that I could not probably let it run into many gross absurdities; which may caution my enemies from too rash a censure, and may also encourage my friends, who are many more than I could reasonably have expected, to believe their kindness has not been very undeservedly bestowed on me. This is not a play that was huddled up in haste; and, to shew it was not, I will own, that, besides the general moral of it, which is given in the four last lines, there is also another moral, couched under every one of the principal parts and characters, which a judicious critic will observe, though I point not to it in this preface. And there may be also some secret beauties in the decorum of parts, and uniformity of design, which my puny judges will not easily find out: let them consider in the last scene of the fourth act, whether I have not preserved the rule of decency, in giving all the advantage to the royal character, and in making Dorax first submit. Perhaps too they may have thought, that it was through indigence of characters that I have given the same to Sebastian and Almeyda, and consequently made them alike in all things but their sex. But let them look a little deeper into the matter, and they will find, that this identity of character in the greatness of their souls was intended for a preparation of the final discovery, and that the likeness of their nature was a fair hint to the proximity of their blood. To avoid the imputation of too much vanity, (for all writers, and especially poets, will have some,) I will give but one other instance, in relation to the uniformity of the design. I have observed, that the English will not bear a thorough tragedy; but are pleased, that it should be lightened with underparts of mirth. It had been easy for me to have given my audience a better course of comedy, I mean a more diverting, than that of Antonio and Morayma; but I dare appeal, even to my enemies, if I, or any man, could have invented one, which had been more of a piece, and more depending on the serious part of the design. For what could be more uniform, than to draw from out of the members of a captive court, the subject of a comical entertainment? To prepare this episode, you see Dorax giving the character of Antonio, in the beginning of the play, upon his first sight of him at the lottery; and to make the dependence, Antonio is engaged, in the fourth act, for the deliverance of Almeyda; which is also prepared, by his being first made a slave to the captain of the rabble. I should beg pardon for these instances; but perhaps they may be of use to future poets, in the conduct of their plays; at least, if I appear too positive, I am growing old, and thereby in possession of some experience, which men in years will always assume for a right of talking. Certainly if a man can ever have reason to set a value on himself, it is when his ungenerous enemies are taking the advantage of the times upon him, to ruin him in his reputation. And therefore, for once, I will make bold to take the counsel of my old master Virgil, _Tu ne cede mails, sed contra audentior ito._ Footnotes: 1. There was a Portuguese prophecy to this purpose, which they applied to the expected return of Sebastian: _Vendra et Incubierto, Vendra cierto; Entrera en el huerto, Per el puerto, Questa mas a ca del muro; Y'lo que paresce escuro, Se vra claro e abierto._ Two false Sebastians, both hermits, laid claim to the throne of Portugal. One was hanged, and the other died in the galleys. Vide _Le Quien's Histoire Generale de Portugal_.--There are two tracts which appear to regard the last of these impostors, and which may have furnished our author with some slight hints; namely, "The true History of the late and lamentable Adventures of Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, after his imprisonment at Naples until this present day, being now in Spain, at San Lucar de Barrameda.--1602;" and, "A continuation of the lamentable and admirable Adventures of Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, with a Declaration of all his time employed since the Battle in Africk against the Infidels, 1578, until this present year 1603. London, 1603." Both pieces are reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, Vols IV. and V. 2. The uncertainty of his fate is alluded to by Fletcher: _Wittypate._ In what service have ye been, sir? _Ruinous._ The first that fleshed me a soldier, sir, Was that great battle at Alcazar, in Barbary, Where the noble English Stukely fell, and where The royal Portugal Sebastian ended His untimely days. _Wittypate._ Are you sure Sebastian died there? _Ruinous._ Faith, sir, there was some other rumour hoped Amongst us, that he, wounded, escaped, and touched On his native shore again, where finding his country at home More distressed by the invasion of the Spaniard Than his loss abroad, forsook it, still supporting A miserable and unfortunate life, Which where he ended is yet uncertain. _Wit at several Weapons._ I have printed this quotation as I find it in the edition of 1778; though I am unable to discover what pretensions it claims to be arranged as blank verse. 3. _Toxica zelotypo dedit uxor maecha marito, Nec satis ad mortem credidit esse datum. Micuit argenti letalia pondera vivi; Cogeret ut celerem vis geminata necem. Dividat haec si quis, faciunt discreta venenum: Antidotum sumet, qui sociata bibet. Ergo inter sese dum noxia pocula certant, Cessit letalis noxa salutiferae. Protinus et vacuos alvi petiere recessus Lubrica dejectis qua via nota cibis. Quam pia cura deum! prodest crudelior uxor, Et quum fata volunt, bina venena juvant._ PROLOGUE SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY AN UNKNOWN HAND, AND PROPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS MOUNTFORD, DRESSED LIKE AN OFFICER[1]. Bright beauties, who in awful circle sit, And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit, And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit, Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may; Is all this crowd barely to see the play; Or is't the poet's execution-day? His breath is in your hands I will presume, But I advise you to defer his doom, Till you have got a better in his room; And don't maliciously combine together, As if in spite and spleen you were come hither; For he has kept the pen, tho' lost the feather[2]. And, on my honour, ladies, I avow, This play was writ in charity to you; For such a dearth of wit who ever knew? Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation, For the abuse of so great dispensation; And, therefore, I resolve to change vocation. For want of petticoat, I've put on buff, To try what may be got by lying rough: How think you, sirs? is it not well enough? Of bully-critics I a troop would lead; But, one replied,--Thank you, there's no such need, I at Groom-Porter's, sir, can safer bleed. Another, who the name of danger loaths, Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths, But that his horses were in body-clothes. A third cried,--Damn my blood, I'll be content To push my fortune, if the parliament Would but recal claret from banishment. A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse-- I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse; Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes. Well, I may march, thought I, and fight, and trudge, But, of these blades, the devil a man will budge; They there would fight, e'en just as here they judge. Here they will pay for leave to find a fault; But, when their honour calls, they can't be bought; Honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought. Lost virtue, whither fled? or where's thy dwelling Who can reveal? at least, 'tis past my telling, Unless thou art embarked for Inniskilling. On carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage, In boot of wisp and Leinster frise engage; What would you do in such an equipage[3]? The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten; Not out of errant shame of being beaten, As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten. Were wit like honour, to be won by fighting, How few just judges would there be of writing! Then you would leave this villainous back-biting. Your talents lie how to express your spite; But, where is he who knows to praise aright? You praise like cowards, but like critics fight. Ladies, be wise, and wean these yearling calves, Who, in your service too, are meer faux braves; They judge, and write, and fight, and love--by halves. Footnotes: 1. The humour of this intended prologue turns upon the unwillingness displayed to attend King William into Ireland by many of the nobility and gentry, who had taken arms at the Revolution. The truth is, that, though invited to go as volunteers, they could not but consider themselves as hostages, of whom William did not chuse to lose sight, lest, while he was conquering Ireland, he might, perchance, lose England, by means of the very men by whom he had won it. The disbanding of the royal regiment had furnished a subject for the satirical wit of Buckingham, at least, such a piece is printed in his Miscellanies; and for that of Shadwell, in his epilogue to Bury-fair. But Shadwell was now poet-laureat, and his satire was privileged, like the wit of the ancient royal jester. Our author was suspected of disaffection, and liable to misconstruction: For which reason, probably, he declined this sarcastic prologue, and substituted that which follows, the tone of which is submissive, and conciliatory towards the government. Contrary to custom, it was spoken by a woman. 2. In allusion to his being deprived of the office of poet laureat. 3. The Inniskilling horse, who behaved with great courage against King James, joined Schomberg and King William's forces at Dundalk, in 1689, rather resembled a foreign frey-corps, than regular troops. "They were followed by multitudes of their women; they were uncouth in their appearance; they rode on small horses, called _Garrons_; their pistols were not fixed in holsters, but dangled about their persons, being slung to their sword-belts; they offered, with spirit, to make always the forlorn of the army; but, upon the first order they received, they cried out, 'They could thrive no longer, since they were now put under orders.'--_Memoirs_, Vol. II. p. 133. The allusion in the next verse is to the dreadful siege of Londonderry, when the besieged suffered the last extremities of famine. The account of this memorable leaguer, by the author just quoted, is a most spirited piece of historical painting. PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY A WOMAN. The judge removed, though he's no more my lord, May plead at bar, or at the council-board: So may cast poets write; there's no pretension To argue loss of wit, from loss of pension. Your looks are chearful; and in all this place I see not one that wears a damning face. The British nation is too brave, to show Ignoble vengeance on a vanquished foe. At last be civil to the wretch imploring; And lay your paws upon him, without roaring. Suppose our poet was your foe before, Yet now, the business of the field is o'er; 'Tis time to let your civil wars alone, When troops are into winter-quarters gone. Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian; And you well know, a play's of no religion. Take good advice, and please yourselves this day; No matter from what hands you have the play. Among good fellows every health will pass, That serves to carry round another glass: When with full bowls of Burgundy you dine, } Though at the mighty monarch you repine, } You grant him still Most Christian in his wine. } Thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle, And all the rest is purely from this noddle. You have seen young ladies at the senate-door, Prefer petitions, and your grace implore; However grave the legislators were, Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair. Reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, I bring; But I could bribe you with as good a thing. I heard him make advances of good nature; That he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire. Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again The sacred names of fops and beaus profane. Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear, As times go now, he offers very fair. Be not too hard on him with statutes neither; } Be kind; and do not set your teeth together, } To stretch the laws, as coblers do their leather. } Horses by Papists are not to be ridden, But sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden; For in no rate-book it was ever found That Pegasus was valued at five pound[1]: Fine him to daily drudging and inditing: And let him pay his taxes out in writing. Footnote: 1. Alluding to the act for disarming the Catholics, by which, _inter alia_, it is enacted, "that no Papist, or reputed Papist, so refusing, or making default, as aforesaid, at any time after the 15th of May, 1689, shall, or may have, and keep in his own possession, or in the possession of any other person for his use, or at his disposition, any horse or horses, which shall be above the value of L.5."--1st William and Mary, c. 15. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _Don_ SEBASTIAN, _King of Portugal._ MULEY-MOLUCH, _Emperor of Barbary._ DORAX, _a noble Portuguese, now a renegade; formerly Don_ ALONZO DE SYLVERA, _Alcade, or Governor of Alcazar._ BENDUCAR, _chief Minister, and favourite to the Emperor._ _The Mufti_ ABDALLA. MULEY-ZEYDAN, _brother to the Emperor._ _Don_ ANTONIO, _a young, noble, amorous Portuguese; now a slave._ _Don_ ALVAREZ, _an old counsellor to Don_ SEBASTIAN; _now a slave also._ MUSTAPHA, _Captain of the Rabble._ _Two Merchants._ _Rabble._ _A Servant to_ BENDUCAR. _A Servant to the Mufti._ ALMEYDA, _a captive Queen of Barbary._ MORAYMA, _daughter to the Mufti._ JOHAYMA, _chief wife to the Mufti._ SCENE,--_In the Castle of Alcazar._ DON SEBASTIAN, KING OF PORTUGAL. ACT I. SCENE I. _The scene at Alcazar, representing a market-place under the Castle._ _Enter_ MULEY-ZEYDAN _and_ BENDUCAR. _M. Zey._ Now Africa's long wars are at an end, And our parched earth is drenched in Christian blood; My conquering brother will have slaves enow, To pay his cruel vows for victory.-- What hear you of Sebastian, king of Portugal? _Bend._ He fell among a heap of slaughtered Moors, Though yet his mangled carcase is not found. The rival of our threatened empire, Mahomet, Was hot pursued; and, in the general rout, Mistook a swelling current for a ford, And in Mucazar's flood was seen to rise: Thrice was he seen: At length his courser plunged, And threw him off; the waves whelmed over him, And, helpless, in his heavy arms he drowned. _M. Zey._ Thus, then, a doubtful title is extinguished; Thus Moluch, still the favourite of fate, Swims in a sanguine torrent to the throne, As if our prophet only worked for him: The heavens, and all the stars, are his hired servants; As Muley-Zeydan were not worth their care, And younger brothers but the draff of nature. _Bend._ Be still, and learn the soothing arts of court: Adore his fortune, mix with flattering crowds; And, when they praise him most, be you the loudest. Your brother is luxurious, close, and cruel; Generous by fits, but permanent in mischief. The shadow of a discontent would ruin us; We must be safe, before we can be great. These things observed, leave me to shape the rest. _M. Zey._ You have the key; he opens inward to you. _Bend._ So often tried, and ever found so true, Has given me trust; and trust has given me means Once to be false for all. I trust not him; For, now his ends are served, and he grown absolute, How am I sure to stand, who served those ends? I know your nature open, mild, and grateful: In such a prince the people may be blest, And I be safe. _M. Zey._ My father! [_Embracing him._ _Bend._ My future king, auspicious Muley-Zeydan! Shall I adore you?--No, the place is public: I worship you within; the outward act Shall be reserved till nations follow me, And heaven shall envy you the kneeling world.-- You know the alcade of Alcazar, Dorax? _M. Zey._ The gallant renegade you mean? _Bend._ The same. That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, Contains the shining treasure, of a soul Resolved and brave: He has the soldiers' hearts, And time shall make him ours. _M. Zey._ He's just upon us. _Bend._ I know him from afar, By the long stride, and by the sullen port.-- Retire, my lord. Wait on your brother's triumph; yours is next: His growth is but a wild and fruitless plant; I'll cut his barren branches to the stock, And graft you on to bear. _M. Zey._ My oracle! [_Exit_ M. ZEY. _Bend._ Yes, to delude your hopes.--Poor credulous fool! To think that I would give away the fruit Of so much toil, such guilt, and such damnation! If I am damned, it shall be for myself. This easy fool must be my stale, set up To catch the people's eyes: He's tame and merciful; Him I can manage, till I make him odious By some unpopular act; and then dethrone him. _Enter_ DORAX. Now, Dorax. _Dor._ Well, Benducar. _Bend._ Bare Benducar! _Dor._ Thou would'st have titles; take them then,--chief minister, First hangman of the state. _Bend._ Some call me, favourite. _Dor._ What's that?--his minion?-- Thou art too old to be a catamite!-- Now pr'ythee tell me, and abate thy pride, Is not Benducar, bare, a better name In a friend's mouth, than all those gaudy titles, Which I disdain to give the man I love? _Bend._ But always out of humour,-- _Dor._ I have cause: Though all mankind is cause enough for satire. _Bend._ Why, then, thou hast revenged thee on mankind. They say, in fight, thou hadst a thirsty sword, And well 'twas glutted there. _Dor._ I spitted frogs; I crushed a heap of emmets; A hundred of them to a single soul, And that but scanty weight too. The great devil Scarce thanked me for my pains; he swallows vulgar Like whipped cream,--feels them not in going down. _Bend._ Brave renegade!--Could'st thou not meet Sebastian? Thy master had been worthy of thy sword. _Dor._ My master!--By what title? Because I happened to be born where he Happened to be king?--And yet I served him; Nay, I was fool enough to love him too.-- You know my story, how I was rewarded For fifteen hard campaigns, still hooped in iron, And why I turned Mahometan. I'm grateful; But whosoever dares to injure me, Let that man know, I dare to be revenged. _Bend._ Still you run off from bias:--Say, what moves Your present spleen? _Dor._ You marked not what I told you. I killed not one that was his maker's image; I met with none but vulgar two-legged brutes: Sebastian was my aim; he was a man: Nay,--though he hated me, and I hate him, Yet I must do him right,--he was a man, Above man's height, even towering to divinity: Brave, pious, generous, great, and liberal; Just as the scales of heaven, that weigh the seasons. He loved his